


Starswept

by stardropdream (orphan_account)



Series: Highway Cloudbusting [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Hetalia Kink Meme, Homophobia, M/M, Sexual Content, Sexual Identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-23
Updated: 2013-02-23
Packaged: 2017-12-03 09:25:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 35,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/696780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just because you confess your feelings doesn't mean everything will fall into place from there - and England and America both have things they need to understand and accept about themselves and each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to the Hetalia kink meme and then reposted to LJ September 15, 2010. 
> 
> Serves as a sequel to Highway Cloudbusting.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An overreaction, misunderstanding, and fight breaks up the relative peace they'd managed to create over the last week.

America yawned for the second time in five minutes, with mouth opened wide and the smallest pop of his jaw. He rubbed at his cheek idly, cringing only slightly from the crack.  
  
England eyed him warily from the passenger seat, arms crossed and looking customarily grumpy. “If you fall asleep and crash this car I am never forgiving you.”  
  
“I’m not going to fall asleep, geez,” America whined. “The sun hasn’t even set completely yet. So why would I be tired?”  
  
If looks could kill, England would have killed him on the spot—and then they really would have gotten into a crash and died (except that America would already be dead… his mind was wandering). It was a circular ‘what if’, but America usually thrived with such things—like a brain teaser, or something cool like that. He grinned sheepishly at England, still feeling that weird feeling in the pit of his stomach—giddy, unsure. Thrilled. That strange flop in his belly that he got whenever he looked at England for too long and realized _holy crap, we kind of inexplicably like each other_. It wouldn’t matter how long that fact was true, it seemed that flop would never rid itself. If England knew that America thought these things, the younger nation had no doubt that the other man would probably laugh in his face, or make fun of him for being so damned ridiculous. And then he’d blush and look out the window—the way he always did when he got embarrassed or cornered into admitting something, like, _yes, I inexplicably kind of like you, too, it’s true._  
  
Oh, the giddy feeling was back.  
  
“… What?” England muttered, growing noticeably uneasy with America’s ridiculous, unexplained shit-eating grin.  
  
America’s grin only seemed to widen, and he felt his cheeks flush. “Naw, nothing.”  
  
England rolled his eyes and turned away, but not before America caught the flush on his cheeks—success! England looked out the window, and muttered, “Well, fine.”  
  
They drove in relative silence. They were somewhere in the Midwest, on their way back to New York. Their bosses were waiting for them, and a world meeting was to take place a few days from then. They covered countless miles in one day (countless, because America didn’t want to count the miles down to when they’d have to stop their impromptu road trip), slept, and then continued on. They were slotted to arrive in New York City in a few days, though America joked that with the traffic, it’d be more like a week. Regardless, the two of them rattled through the backcountry of America’s expansive country, their tires kicking up dust and piling up the mileage on America’s old, beat-up red pick-up. Whenever England argued it’d be faster to just take a plane, America acted properly scandalized—how dare England suggest he leave his precious truck behind!  
  
And now, with the sun setting behind them, one of America’s arms slung over the back of the seats, and England giving him his customary ‘if looks could kill’ look, America was feeling rather content. If not bored.  
  
He yawned again.  
  
England gave him a look. “Shall I drive so you can take a nap?”  
  
“I am not going to fall asleep!” America protested, and rolled his eyes, tapping his fingers against his steering wheel and shifting the arm on his seat to shove playfully at the back of England’s head. The reward for his troubles was England mercilessly slapping his hand away and curling his lip up in displeasure. America laughed. “Don’t be so pissed-off looking, England. Riding in a car with me isn’t that bad.”  
  
England’s nose twitched in a way that was actually rather cute, though America wasn’t about to point that out (and risk losing his hand to another savage slap). The other man looked away, turning his chin up in a huffy fashion.  
  
“God, what crawled up your ass and died?” America asked, looking perplexed.  
  
“You’re the only thing that’s been up there, so you tell me,” England said, shockingly prim, and without missing a beat—so quick and so completely nonchalant despite saying something so lewd. It actually made America _sputter_ , which never, ever happened. He sputtered out a few incoherent words and England’s lips twitched again, this time into a victorious smirk.  
  
“Okay—well. Um,” America said, intelligently so. And then stopped talking because he couldn’t think of anything coherent to say. He cleared his throat. “Yeah. Um.”  
  
England straightened his tie—who the hell wears a tie on a road trip?—and seemed completely unruffled by this exchange, which was an odd one because it was usually America saying weird stuff that made England sputter. But England’s expression seemed to soften, just slightly, as the truck descended into a relatively uncomfortable silence. His cheeks flushed pink.  
  
England grabbed America’s hand still draped over the back of the truck’s seat and placed it on the steering wheel along with its companion. “Focus on driving, fool.”  
  
“I can focus one-handed,” America protested.  
  
England quirked a brow. “Oh. I’m sure.”  
  
“I didn’t mean it that way, you sick pervert,” America muttered, puffing up his cheeks, trying to look scandalized. He was not successful.  
  
The sun was almost completely set, though. It was dusk, now, and America clicked on the headlights, driving down the empty highway just a little over the speed limit. He whistled slightly, and all the while he could feel England’s gaze on him. His rendition of “America the beautiful” was cut dramatically short by yet another yawn. He tried to swallow it and it only served in giving him a rather deranged look before the yawn won out and his eyes watered.  
  
“Hm,” England said, and that was all.  
  
America glanced at him and their eyes met. “What?”  
  
England shrugged one shoulder, not taking his eyes off him. The way he was looking at him was quite possibly less than innocent, but America wasn’t prepared to look into that expression. England leaned back, propping his arm up against the window, hand curled and resting slightly against the slope of his jaw. Nonchalant, innocent. Watching him.  
  
The older nation didn’t speak at first, and then said, primly, “I have a suggestion for how to keep you awake.”  
  
“I’m not going to fall asleep,” America protested. “And I’m not giving you the wheel.”  
  
He wasn’t quite sure why he was being stubborn, but England’s insistence that he was tired was aggravating, and having England coddle him was annoying at times, too. (It seemed that his tendency towards protesting everything England said just for the sake of protesting didn’t go away even once their mutual feelings were revealed.) And besides, America was more than capable of driving his own car on his own highway across his own country, thanks kindly. England was a stubborn old man at the heart of it, though, and though he watched him with quiet confidence, there was still that underlying hesitation that had permeated throughout their (tentative, still newly formed) relationship. Afraid to be hurt. And that flicker in his eyes made America suspect he was about to suggest something unorthodox, or at the very least something unlike _them._  
  
“But what’s your big idea, anyway?” America finally conceded. “If it’s a good idea maybe I’ll do it.”  
  
England shifted, biting the inside of his cheek—and the earlier, lewd confidence seemed to shift for the quarter of a moment, and for that quarter of a moment it looked as if England would back down.  
  
Instead, the older nation said, “I’ll suck you off.”  
  
The two nations jerked back against their seats as America’s foot slipped on the gas pedal and the truck sped up. Their inertia held them back, and America quickly corrected his mistake. America choked—that had _not_ been what he’d expected to hear _at all._  
  
“W-What?” America squeaked out, in a completely manly fashion he hoped.  
  
But England was looking away, face bright red. “Never you mind.”  
  
“No—wait. You—holy shit,” was America’s intelligent reply.  
  
“Forget it,” England muttered, “I must be just as mad as you. Tired. Need to get to a bed and just sleep. Christ.”  
  
“You want—Jesus!” America shouted, still speeding down the highway.  
  
“Would you just _drop_ it?” England barked, whipping his head around to punch at America’s shoulder, his face beat red. “I don’t know what came over me—I’m clearly just as daft as you are!”  
  
It was probably the boldest thing England had ever said to him in their relationship. To be fair, their relationship was still rather young, but it was still rather shocking. America swallowed around the lump in his throat (it felt like dried, scratchy cotton before it went through a gin), scratching at his windpipe and making it fairly impossible for him to say something without an epically distressing voice crack to accommodate his words. Both nations red-faced, America muttered:  
  
“Someone might see us.”  
  
England’s face closed off and he muttered something under his breath, folding his arms against his chest and ducking his head. “The road’s been empty for hours.”  
  
“But—”  
  
“Just _drop it_!” England barked, sputtering. “I just meant that it could be a way to wake you up—seeing you yawn so much is not comforting as a passenger, I’ll have you know.”  
  
“Wouldn’t you just giving me a blowjob _distract_ me?” America shouted, biting his lower lip. “N-not that I don’t like the idea of getting one from you, ya know—um. Yeah. Just… yeah.”  
  
England muttered more curses under his breath, arms folded against him and curling slightly into himself. America was thankful the sun was almost completely down so that England couldn’t possibly see the way all the blood was rushing to his face (and, shamefully, just a little bit to below the belt as well). They sat in a tensed silence, America continually glancing at England and England pointedly not looking at him.  
  
Making an expression that was a strange cross between a pout and flat-lined gulp, America closed his eyes, gripping the steering wheel for all his life.  
  
“Hey,” England snapped, “Keep your eyes open and on the road, damn it!”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“Hmph.”  
  
“No… I mean. Okay. Blow me.”  
  
England gave him a deadpanned expression, then his face exploded once again into a dark, beet red.  
  
“I don’t want to anymore!”  
  
“Awwww—come _on_ England, you can’t _say_ shit like that and then leave me high and dry!”  
  
England’s eyes, despite himself, flickered to America’s crotch before snapping back up to America’s face. “You aren’t hard. You’ll live.”  
  
“Englaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand,” America whined, as it’d worked in the past.  
  
“Stop that at once!” England shouted.  
  
“Come ooooon,” America goaded, and this time did pout. “It might keep me awake—I definitely won’t be yawning!”  
  
England scoffed, turning his nose upwards, and looking his self-righteous best. A beat passed between them, and they looked anywhere but at each other. England shifted, then hesitated, looking awkward. The entire situation was awkward—they were awkward. America wasn’t used to the relationship thing—he hadn’t been in a serious one for very long, and not for a long time. And England was the first one who wasn’t a girl—and he definitely hadn’t gotten a BJ in a truck before—probably because if anyone ever caught him in public, America would die of puritanical shock. And he never, ever would have expected England in a million years to ever _offer_ to do something like this in a _truck_ (a truck that England had more than once on this trip deemed unsophisticated). He knew the guy was a pervert—but Jesus Christ! (Or, not Jesus Christ. If he thought about his old pal Jesus for too long he started feeling ill, like his religious right was drop-kicking him in the stomach from the inside out.)  
  
But England wasn’t responding. In fact, he just looked plain moody and unpleasant. The rest of the ride would probably continue in a stilled silence until they reached the motel for the night. America chewed on his lower lip—it wasn’t that he was ashamed of England. He was just awkward around sex, especially when England coddled him (which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing—he liked to be needed). England turned his face away, and his shoulders slumped a little.  
  
America tapped his fingers across the steering wheel and then cleared his throat. His blush furthered—he couldn’t believe he actually wanted it. It was public—at least, semi-public. It was true no one was around, and the truck was high enough off the ground that most cars wouldn’t be able to actually see what England was doing to America, if he would just do it. And god, America realized he really did want England to do it. The blood was draining further southward the more he thought about it, which would quickly lead to the uncomfortable reality of having a boner and yet no one to relieve him of it, despite having his _boyfriend_ (boyfriend?) right there beside him. Maybe he really would have to focus one-handed.  
  
Of course, America was roused from his pathetic, horny musings by the click of England’s seatbelt coming undone and whirling back behind him. America looked to England and found England looking at him. England lowered his eyes.  
  
“Keep your hands on the wheel,” he warned, and then leaned over to his side of the cabin, planting one hand on America’s thigh—his hand was so warm, fingers spread over the soft fabric of his jeans—and the other hand pushing up America’s shirt away from his belt buckle. America’s breath caught—  
  
“Oh _Jesus_ ,” America hissed as England very much began to follow up on his offer. He stared down at England (forgetting momentarily about the road) and watched in stilled, aroused fascination as England kissed at his exposed belly, then fiddled with his belt buckle, pulling it away from the snap and zip.  
  
“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he heard England mutter, and then watched awkwardly as England pulled him free from his jeans and his boxers, already half-hard. America angled his hips up slightly to help pull them down. England glanced up at him and saw America staring down at him. “Eyes on the road, you idiot—you want to get into an accident? For fuck’s sake.”  
  
“Right, right,” America said, a deep exhalation. His body quivered from expectation but he forced his eyes on the road ahead of him. His body felt tense, poised precariously on the edge of coherency as England’s fingers moved hesitantly over his feverish skin.  
  
England murmured something incoherent, his breath hot and transient against the expanse of his skin. Fingers brushed over his half-hard cock and the breath breezed closer to his cockhead. America almost clenched his eyes shut before he remembered he was supposed to keep his eyes on the road. He bit his lip. It felt strange, to know England was there, but not be able to see him, unless he glanced downwards.  
  
And then England’s mouth incased the head of his cock and America choked slightly in shock, his hips jerking upwards before he could stop them. England’s hands pressed against America’s hips, keeping him in place as his tongue laved at the slit in his cock. America swallowed back another choke and tried to keep his focus on the road. Something shifted in the cellar of America’s stomach, and his entire body seized up and it took his entire strength not to writhe.  
  
“England,” he choked out, just slightly, biting his lip harder and gripping the steering wheel until he worried he would snap it in his hold. His knuckles were white.  
  
He glanced down as England swallowed more of his cock, and England was looking up at him. Through the fringe of his hair, green eyes burned in the dim light of evening, seeming to sparkle and to stare straight up at America. England paused in his ministrations as he gazed up at America, and then slowly, he swallowed more of America, his tongue running along the bottom length of America’s cock. America choked out, and the corners of England’s lips quirked up into a small smile, just slightly, as much as he could with a cock in his mouth.  
  
America was captivated by the stars in England’s eyes, as if they’d always been there and were born to just twinkle in the way that made the bottom of America’s stomach drop out, and make America believe that _yes_ there was nothing else in this world he wanted than to stare into England’s eyes. A hand fell away from the steering wheel and tangled in England’s hair, pushing the hair away from his forehead so he could see those eyes better. England’s expression didn’t change, though there was the slightest moment of a flicker, as his eyes scanned America’s face. And then he seemed to remember that America was staring quite prolonging at him and not at the road. His hand pushed away from America’s hip and took the hand in his hair. He pulled it away, but before placing it on the steering wheel, he took America’s hand to his face, made the back of America’s knuckles brush along his cheek. His lids lowered, so that blinding green was locked from his sight, as England focused on the hand. And then, in that fleeting moment, it was over and England pulled America’s hand back to the steering wheel. His eyes did not flicker up again and focused on the task at hand.  
  
But America had to keep staring at him. It was those moments—those little, insignificant moments that made America believe that everything would be okay, that everything was perfect. Made him believe that for the rest of his life all he wanted was England, only England. It was always England, always would be England. It was those moments, when England’s eyes were completely unguarded, when there was nothing in the world but the two of them that America, too, forgot everything that weighed him down, everything that made him feel crazy. He was without an anchor, floating away, and the only thing to keep him from floating high enough that the atmospheric pressure would make him explode was England. England was like his sandbag—  
  
And how the hell was he thinking up metaphors when England was doing devilish things to his cock with his tongue and lips?  
  
“England,” he choked out again, but managed to keep his eyes on the road.  
  
England hummed around his cock, relaxed his throat to take more of him. The angle was far too awkward for England to even consider deep-throating him, but he took as much of America as he could, keeping his mouth tight and warm, an inexplicably pleasurable heat that made America’s vision burn white for a moment. And it took all he could not to pull over and give his full attention to England, but he knew that England would fly away from him if he were to do that, that in these moments England let his inhibitions drop away, afraid of the moment when they had to return, and let himself love America the way he said he did (and the way America, no matter what, knew was the truth). But there was still a small wall between them, something that they’d started to knock down but still had a long way to go before it could be fully torn away.  
  
England sucked him in further and America choked, clenching his eyes shut before forcing them to open again. He bit his lip, bit the inside of his cheek, would have bitten anything he could get his mouth on to keep from yelling out and saying completely stupid or sappy things, like how much he loved England, how much he loved England sucking him off, how his hair was really soft, his eyes. God, his eyes—  
  
“England,” he said again, looking down at England again before he could stop himself.  
  
The thus named nation looked up at him, the smile still on his mouth, his eyes completely unguarded and opened—and god, those were the moments he lived for. England pulled away though—god, why—and pillowed his lips against the hardened, swollen flesh.  
  
“Eyes on the road, lovely,” he said, and _god_ he would never, ever be tired of England, never be tired of the way he smiled at him, the way his voice grew so soft and gentle in those moments. What he wouldn’t give to always have that. What he wouldn’t do to tear down the wall and let himself love England completely, and make England believe he would never betray him. There was still so much in both their hearts, so much they would have to work through. Baby steps. They would need baby steps. America preferred leaps, but knew he wouldn’t be able to.  
  
“Right, right,” America said softly, letting his gaze linger on England a bit longer. England smiled at him again, a bit lopsided and uneasy as he leaned forward and kissed at America’s panting belly. He drifted downwards, and lifted up a hand to tilt America’s chin away from him.  
  
America tried to focus.  
  
England returned to his ministrations, sucking America off and distracting him (and keeping him very awake) quite successfully, using his mouth and tongue to his advantage. America cried out occasionally, but usually was able to curb his tendency to whimper out incoherent and unwholesomely embarrassing things.  
  
As he neared his orgasm, his entire body was tensing up and humming with pleasure. He knew it would be soon and he would flop into liquid pleasure and maybe England would stay close like this and kiss at his neck or something equally as nice until they found a motel for the night and America could return the favor to England (even if America was still hopelessly clumsy and blocky with things like this, and England seemed stupidly experienced and it took all of America’s know-how not to let on that it bothered him or made him insecure at times). It was promising to be a really nice night.  
  
Which is why the universe decided it was time to break up the nice little illusion America was building up for himself. Instead of a cry of ecstasy as he grew closer and closer, America gave out a muffled shout.  
  
“Oh—fuck!”  
  
And it wasn’t a nice ‘oh—fuck!’ either, but rather one of alarm. England looked up at him in confusion but America’s eyes were on the rear-view mirror. The cabin was flashing with red and blue.  
  
“Oh fuck, oh fuck,” America said and his eyes darted to his speedometer. “England, stop—! Shit, I’m getting pulled over.”  
  
“What?” England asked, pulling his mouth away and staring up at him in shock.  
  
“Fuuuck,” America shouted, his entire face going pale, not because of his speed limit (fifteen miles per hour over the limit) but because: “Shit, he’s going—oh my god I’m still hard! And you’re right there!”  
  
“Relax,” England commanded, in the kind of voice he got in the face of hysteria. His expression slated off to something very determined and composed, despite the situation. “Slow down and pull over.”  
  
“But—!”  
  
England gave him a sharp look and shoved America’s boxers and jeans back up, zipping it up and redoing the belt.  
  
“There.”  
  
“I’m still _hard_ England, and he’s going to notice if suddenly you just sit up like that!” America cried out and, yes, he was becoming quite hysterical.  
  
England narrowed his eyes, his face thinning out. America slowed down, flipping on the blinker to pull over onto the side of the road. The lights continued to alternate behind them, from blue to red. It was making America’s face turn paler still, sweat from the earlier exertion of getting a blowjob clinging to his forehead.  
  
“Darling, you need to rela—”  
  
“Shut up, England, I know,” America whined, staring into the rearview mirror as he put the truck into park and watched the state trooper pull behind him, slowing to a stop. “Oh fuck, I can’t believe this is happening. I’m—”  
  
“Hysterical,” England snapped. “Calm down, America. You haven’t done anything wrong.”  
  
And before America could shout out that they’d totally done something totally wrong and dirty and there was no way he was going to be able to hide his boner, England shifted slightly and from the floor of the passenger’s seat, pulled up his coat. America opened his mouth to say something but England didn’t even pass a glance to his boyfriend before bunching up his coat and draping it over America’s lap, and laying his head there in his lap.  
  
“England, what—”  
  
“I’m napping,” England said, closing his eyes, head pressed in a way that hid America’s hardened cock (but not without some discomfort from America). “Keep your voice down, you idiot.”  
  
America stared down at him flabbergasted, but didn’t say anymore because in the side mirror he watched the state trooper approach. He rolled down the window and waited, biting his lip. When the state trooper came to the window, America realized it was a woman, looking tired and somewhat bored. She tipped her hat back.  
  
“Evening, officer,” America greeted.  
  
“Any idea how fast you were going?” she drawled, her voice a soft but commanding lilt.  
  
England didn’t move in his lap, and his back rose and fell peacefully, as if he’d been slumbering for hours. America swallowed thickly and did his best to calm himself down, his heart was racing (from the pleasure from before, and now more so the adrenaline of almost being caught) and he knew he was sweating and looking in general rather pale. He swallowed again, calming down just slightly when he forced himself to relax the death-grip on his steering wheel. It’d be bad if he aroused suspicion in the officer, and he really, really did not want to leave the truck.  
  
“No, ma’am,” he said, giving her a lopsided smile. “‘Fraid not.”  
  
“Seventy-four,” she said, face hardened and completely uncharmed by America’s devilish good looks. Damn.  
  
“Well shoot,” America said, laughing, “I’m sorry, ma’am. I just wanted to get to a motel as quick as possible so my friend here could get a decent night’s sleep.”  
  
He gestured down to England. The state trooper remained impassive, though she did glance down at the “sleeping” passenger, and damn America had to compliment England for not cracking under the pressure—he looked as peaceful as a kid sleeping. Actually, staring at him gave him the inexplicable urge to pet his hair, but like hell he would ever do that with someone looking, especially an officer.  
  
“He isn’t wearing a seatbelt,” was all the state trooper said, and she seemed even more unimpressed.  
  
America’s one hundred watt smile dimmed just slightly, and he laughed again. “W-well, I guess not…”  
  
“License and registration, please,” she said, holding out her hand.  
  
America sighed and pulled down the sun visor, pulling his registration from the flap. Getting his license was a bit trickier and he spent a good deal of care of moving slowly (so as not to disturb the “sleeper”) and pulling his wallet from his back pocket. He pulled out his fake I.D. (Alfred F. Jones, born in 1987) and handed both things to the officer, who moved away without another word, going to her truck. America breathed out a heavy sigh and slumped, just slightly, his entire body shaking for a moment. She would run through his information and he would be let off with a warning, as he was every time he broke a traffic law. It was something his bosses had set up—he didn’t get taken in or held up. Sometimes he’d get the occasional ticket, but in general when his information came up it was with something akin to “do not hold” and officers figured he was someone really important.  
  
“I can’t believe this,” he told England, but England did not respond, seemingly determined to play out the role of someone sleeping.  
  
The fear of being caught and the shame of being caught had made America’s hard-on virtually disappear, which was enough to make any guy frustrated and America was feeling a bit more than hot and bothered, and ashamed. His face flushed and he ducked his head away from England, looking out at the ground, at the pavement. He would give anything to just sink away into the ground right now and never come back. Or be an ostrich—ostriches were cool, and he could stick his head in the sand and that would be that. It was better than running all the ‘what if’ scenarios in his head—what if the officer had caught them? What if the officer suspected something? What if she thought it was weird for another guy to be sleeping with his head in another guy’s lap? What if she asked something and America stumbled? What if she knew that England was awake and could discern that something nefarious was afoot?  
  
But, of course, none of these things happened. The state trooper returned, handed him back his license and registration, said she was letting him off with a warning, and that he best be careful in the future because not everyone was as nice as she was. He smiled at her, hoping to be charming, and thanked her.  
  
“Thank you, ma’am,” America said, turning the ignition until the truck hummed to life.  
  
“And make him put on his seatbelt,” she said, turned around, and was gone. America watched her return to her car as America pulled away and sailed down the highway (this time at the proper speed limit).  
  
The car followed them for a short while before pulling off onto the closest exit and turning around to return to its earlier speed-trap. America watched the red taillights until they disappeared, like a butterfly into the night.  
  
“She’s gone,” America said.  
  
England sat up at once, collecting his jacket and smoothing out his clothes as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. He snapped his seatbelt back into place. Undoubtedly he’d noticed America had gone soft, too.  
  
“Well, then—” England began.  
  
But the nerves were too much for America, and shaking, he finally let himself go. Maybe he should have restrained himself—he thought in the back of his mind that maybe he should. But he was shaking. It was all too much. “FUCK! She totally almost caught me with a boner and she would have known I was totally gay and—and—and—!”  
  
England looked startled, rearing back away from America from the sudden outburst. “My dear—”  
  
“Fuck!” America shouted, flushing in shame instead of pleasure at the pet name—god, that was not what he wanted now, not ever—“What if she already knew? What if she could tell? Do you think she had gaydar? Does it even work if you’re just sitting there—?”  
  
“She wouldn’t have known,” England soothed. “I was asleep. It’s okay…”  
  
“It’s not okay! What kind of straight guy sleeps on another guy’s _lap_ like that?” America snapped, suddenly furious that England wasn’t properly freaking out, either. “Fuck, England! She must have totally known! Oh god, what if she could tell I had a boner?”  
  
“She didn’t—”  
  
“How can you be so sure?” America insisted.  
  
England’s face closed off, just slightly, and his back went rigid. “America. You’re being ridiculous…”  
  
“I am not!” America protested. “It’s totally—oh _god_ , I knew I shouldn’t have said yes! I should have just pulled over and gotten a coffee or something and god, I think that shaved like seventy years off my life… Fuck! She totally knew.” His face colored and he would have slammed his forehead against the steering wheel if he wasn’t already driving. “She could totally tell I was totally gay for you.”  
  
“Would you just give it a rest?” England shouted, alarmed, and little bit more than annoyed. “She didn’t see anything, so it doesn’t _matter_!”  
  
“It totally matters—it totally—!”  
  
“America,” England said, and it was in a manner of speaking that commanded all attention and halted America’s string of incoherent and nonsensical ramblings. He glanced at England, and found the man glaring at him, his face completely closed off and scooted as far away from him as he possibly could be and still be in the same car.  
  
“I—”  
  
“I know that being with me must be cause for a great deal of shame, America,” England hissed through gritted teeth. And there it was—that little flicker, the kind of flicker America never wanted to see. The anger in England’s eyes shifted and for half a moment he looked away, looked down at his feet, and it nearly broke America’s heart. He’d promised he would never hurt England, and yet—“But nothing happened.”  
  
“It’s not shame!” America shouted, before he could stop himself, taking his eyes completely away from the road to stare earnestly over at England, trying to convey his feelings without saying so with only his eyes, bright blue and wide-eyed. “But England—we’re in the _red states_ , England! We’re not on the coast, we’re not in San Francisco! We’re in the heart of nowhere! Fuck! People are going to be extra sensitive to those kinds of things, and they’re going to know that I’m totally bent just from something like that—”  
  
But England was not pacified. He stared at America for a long moment before he turned completely away from America, looking out the window. But America could see his reflection, see the way his expression crumbled in time with the slump of his shoulders. Angry, hurt, England whispered, “Fuck you.”  
  
“England, no, I didn’t—”  
  
“Just drive,” England commanded, not turning to face him. America watched him close his eyes in the reflection. He said, softer this time, hopeless, hurt, angry, pained: “I just want to get out of this truck. Please.”  
  
America stared at him, thought about insisting. But England didn’t turn to look at him, didn’t even move. Not right away. Slowly, he watched England slump further, curl into himself just slightly, and rest his head against the window, as if trying to fall asleep despite the early hour. America felt his heart clench, felt as if something was twisting and coiling in his gut, trying to cause him to cry out.  
  
He’d fucked up again.  
  
After that, they drove in an eerie silence. America couldn’t tell if England was actually asleep or not, but the other man made no move to disturb him. And England made no move, didn’t even shift. He just stayed there, slumped against the window, curled into himself (knees to chest, arms crossed over them, body completely angled away from America). It made America’s heart hurt, to look at him, but he didn’t dare reach out to touch him. He wanted to, so badly.  
  
Eventually, when the road curved in just the right way, the momentum from the car caused England to pull away from the window and slump against America. That solved the question of whether or not England had actually fallen asleep or not. His head lolled on America’s shoulder, and unconsciously in his sleep he shifted closer. America’s expression softened, though still pained, and he lifted his arm, curling it around England’s body to take him closer, to keep him warm and at least somewhat comfortable.  
  
“… Sorry,” he muttered, and knew he wouldn’t be able to say it when England woke up.  
  
A few hours later found England still sleeping against him, and America starting to nod off. He’d been on the lookout for a motel for hours, but the back roads meant limited sleeping arrangements, and he hadn’t seen any roadside motel, or even a bed and breakfast. Hell, at this point, America would happily take an abandoned shed. Anything to let England stretch out and sleep peacefully, and maybe in the morning he could try to explain himself, try to force out the apology he was never any good at delivering. He’d made a mess of things, yet again, but at least this time he could recognize that.  
  
He frowned, felt the worry-lines etching into his face as he navigated the dark nighttime landscape. He was in the middle of a wasteland, and just wanted to take them both away, to fly through the night and be back—or rewind time so he could just curb his overreaction, smooth out his nerves, take England’s hand and say, _I could never be ashamed of you. I love you._  
  
But of course things didn’t work out that way. And America was an idiot.  
  
His head bobbed and he jerked his attention awake, trying to keep his eyes open. At this rate, he really would fall asleep and crash into something. Then England really would be upset with him, and he’d probably total his car and be in a world of hurt that way, as well. Being scorned by England while he mourned his car was not something America was particularly eager to partake in.  
  
Up ahead was a rest area. That was all he could do. He would snooze for a few hours and set out again to find a motel. It would have to do. He clicked on the truck’s blinker and merged off the highway and towards the rest area. It was small, only a few parking spaces and a bathroom. It would have to do.  
  
America pulled into a spot and cut the ignition. He sat in silence, his arm around England. Then, slowly, he unhooked his seatbelt and opened his door. Pulling away slowly, he cradled England and lowered him slowly so that he was stretched out as best he could be in the truck, spreading the length of the truck’s cabin. America bunched England’s coat up to serve as a pillow and made sure the nation was comfortable, and far enough away from the door so that when America closed it, he wouldn’t get whacked. Shrugging out of his own jacket, America pulled the bomber jacket over the length of England’s body. He loosened England’s tie and brushed his hand through his hair idly.  
  
He felt as if maybe he should say something, but didn’t want to risk waking England up and dealing with an angry boyfriend (boyfriend?). He sighed, softly, and bent down, pushing the hair from England’s forehead and kissing it, letting his lips linger for longer than strictly necessary. Even when he pulled away, to suck in a shaking breath, his mouth stayed close, and how easy it would be to shift up and just kiss England on the mouth. He regarded England’s face, upside down, for a moment before pulling away.  
  
He closed the door, and lingered longer to make sure that England didn’t wake up. England shifted a bit, but otherwise fell away into slumber. America smiled, and trudged off towards the bathroom. He’d sleep in the truck bed.  
  
As he stared at himself in the grungy reflection of the paper towel dispenser in the rest stop’s bathroom a few minutes later, America contemplated calling Canada for some advice, or at least to rant and bitch and moan. He even pulled out his phone. But it was dead, naturally, and the charger was, of course, in the truck. With a sigh, America almost slumped against the bathroom wall before remembering that he was in some gross, sketchy bathroom and slumping against the wall was a stupid, stupid idea.  
  
 _Cheer up,_ he thought, but knew he wouldn’t. Chewing on the inside of his cheek, he stuffed his hands into the inside of his pockets and shoved his shoulder up against the door, opening it to the cool night air. A slow nightly breeze drifted through the abandoned rest area, and America kicked at some pebbles as he wandered back towards the truck, contemplated wandering through the grassy area beyond the restrooms, and then drifting back towards the truck. It resulted in a very spiraled walk, filled with indecision.  
  
Eventually the exhaustion caught up with him, though, and he slugged his way back to the truck, climbing up over the tailgate, being as careful as possible not to rattle the truck frame and wake England up from his tentative sleep. He situated himself as comfortably as he could, lying on the truck bed, hands folded together over his stomach, and staring up at the sky. It was a clear night and America enjoyed watching the stars, silently, waiting for a satellite to flicker by across his field of vision. None came, and America just didn’t have the energy to stargaze, or the attention span to properly appreciate them. He couldn’t get comfortable, either, rolling around onto his side, curling into himself, punching at his bag to try and make it a better pillow. None of it was working, and it felt as if hours ticked by at an excruciating pace, when in reality it was probably only a few seconds.  
  
He sighed and sat up, stretching his arms over his head and arching his back until he heard the satisfyingly audible pop. He ruffled at his hair, blew out a long, distracted breath. Rolling his shoulders, he shuffled along the truck bed, propping his duffle up on top of England’s. He leaned against them, his head resting against the window separating him from the truck’s cabin. He drummed his fingers along the wall of the truck bed, wondering if it was possible to sleep sitting up without getting a horrible crick in the neck. Unlikely.  
  
He felt exhausted, but sleep wasn’t coming. And without his jacket, he was starting to feel cold. He stared up at the stars again, traced the familiar constellations and made up his own, until he finally, blissfully felt his eyelids grow heavy.  
  
And he fell asleep.  
  
He didn’t know how long he slept for, but in that sleep-addled way of his, in the distance fringes of consciousness, he knew he was floating between waking and sleeping further, because he could hear movements, the smallest, accented curse. But the world was black, his body was limp yet stiff. He was sleeping. _Don’t wake up, don’t wake up—_  
  
Perhaps it was a dream, or perhaps it was reality, but he heard a door slam.  
  
But it was definitely reality that woke him, when a jacket hit him in the face from where his cheek was pressed against the lip of the truck’s wall. He jumped and startled himself back into the world of the living. It was still dark, and he had no idea what time it was, but there was England, standing down on the ground and staring up at him as if he was torn between glaring and crying. He’d thrown America’s bomber jacket at him.  
  
He looked stiff, too, and his eyes glanced away for a moment. He did not turn his face away, though, but with the way he was standing it was clear he had an uncomfortable crick in his neck, and probably couldn’t turn it to one side just yet.  
  
Something in America’s chest clenched, as it always did, and his throat bubbled up with things he knew he wouldn’t say but so desperately wanted to. _Why_ didn’t he just say them, why didn’t he just make it easy on himself?  
  
England’s eyes shifted back up to him, and this time it was clear that the passing moments in America’s presence had annoyed him further. His brow was furrowed, his face quirked down into a perpetual scowl.  
  
“Engla—” America began, started but had no idea what it was he was going to say.  
  
“Get in the truck,” England interrupted, coolly, and then held out his hand. “Give me the keys.”  
  
Part of him was glad England had interrupted, to keep him from saying something stupid. But the greater part of him was annoyed at his own inability to, once again, say what he was feeling. But that was just always the way, and despite all his promises to the contrary, America somehow always managed a way to fuck things up.  
  
Regardless, the command made America pause. He frowned, hesitated, but the look in England’s face did not darken, nor did it soften. Tonight, he just wanted to make things work. He hated that, above all things, he always managed to ruin something, always managed to miss a mark. But at the same time, at the same time—  
  
America fumbled in his pocket, felt his throat constrict around the words he was starting to form. It was too much to ask for.  
  
He handed the keys to England, and England took them away without touching America’s fingertips. England did not look at him, just down at the keys a moment, and America tried to read into the way that England’s expression shifted, for just a moment. As quickly as it was there, however, it was gone, and England turned around stiffly and walked the few paces back to the truck, throwing the door open as if it was the door he was furious with, and climbing into the driver’s seat.  
  
England did not look over his shoulder, even as America hesitated, dawdled. He rubbed at his shoulder, stared at England’s back, but England did not turn around. He stared straight ahead, his jaw set, hands gripping the steering wheel like a lifeline.  
  
America shifted his eyes away.  
  
He kicked at the duffle bags, so that they were each on the truck bed and pressed up against the wall, then planted his foot on the truck’s wall and jumped down onto the ground, hands in his pockets. He stared at the ground for a long moment, sucked in a sharp breath of air. He glanced over his shoulder, but England was still staring straight ahead, looking impatient. America closed his eyes, let the night breeze play with his hair, and tipped his head back. He opened his eyes, searching out the moon, searching out familiar stars.  
  
England laid on the horn, still not looking at him, and the sound startled America. He jumped, spun around. America grabbed up his bomber jacket, recently chucked at his head by England, and opened the door to the passenger’s side. He pulled himself up with a small grunt, settled himself in, turning to face England as he did up his safety belt.  
  
“Engla—” he started again.  
  
England turned the ignition in a way that was somehow both terrifying and silencing. America did falter, and his frown deepened. England buckled his seatbelt, smoothed the hair from his face, and started to drive. There was a steady silence.  
  
“Why didn’t you stop at a motel?” England asked after a long pause, and checked the amount of fuel they had to make sure it was not about to run dry.  
  
“… I was getting sleepy,” America admitted, hesitated. Why was he hesitation so much?—he never hesitated.  
  
“You should have woken me up,” England said, and America couldn’t tell what that tone was. He watched as England merged onto the highway and continued their long trek back to the world meetings, reality, and away from each other. Away from—America hated the way his chest clenched at that, because really, it was far too overdramatic. But, there it was. And it was what it was.  
  
“I didn’t mind…” America offered.  
  
England kept his eyes on the road, scowling. Again, America couldn’t tell what the scowl was for, what kind of thoughts were running through England’s head. He was too hard to read, or perhaps America was still incapable of properly reading people. He swallowed thickly, and it took all his heroic restraint not to squirm. His toes curled in his shoes, and he almost said more stupid, impossible things, things that England most likely didn’t want to hear.  
  
“It was okay,” America said, when England did not say anything right away. “It wasn’t uncomfortable. I’ve done it before.”  
  
England still said nothing, still remained silent. But America watched the subtle changes roll over his form—the tension in his shoulders, the way he regripped the steering wheel but still left his knuckles a pale white from his death-grip. Then, slowly, as if unsure whether he wanted America to hear it, England said, almost impossibly quiet: “You could become ill.”  
  
“Naw,” America said, and stifled a yawn behind his hand and completely missing the concern-that-wasn’t-concern in England’s voice. “Besides, there isn’t a motel around here for at least four more hours.”  
  
England stared off into the distance as if willing the universe to drop a motel down from the sky so that he could be spared driving four hours with someone he was not particularly happy with.  
  
“Any bed and breakfasts?”  
  
“If _you_ want to be the one to wake up ol’ mom and pop in the dead of night, be my guest,” America said, and shrugged.  
  
“Then I guess we aren’t stopping for the night,” England said. “We need to get back to New York soon, in any case. We’re already lagging behind.”  
  
America chewed on his bottom lip for a long moment. “I’m tired.”  
  
“Then go back to sleep,” England muttered. “Nothing’s stopping you. I’m awake now. I’ll drive.”  
  
America fidgeted, and chewed on his thumbnail. It was a horrible, horrible habit and England would have said so if he’d been in the mood to lecture. But it was clear he wasn’t. He just wanted to get back to New York, get through the meetings, and go back home—that much, America could tell. He could fly seven hours over the Atlantic, be home, and not have to deal with things like America’s chewing of thumbnails, mixed messages, and… things like that.  
  
America almost bit at the flesh on his thumb, instead of nail. He tried to derail his thoughts or, better yet, not think at all. But it was impossible not to think when England was nearby. He was in a constant state of think-ness when it came to England (and he didn’t care if ‘think-ness’ wasn’t a word; it should be).  
  
America said, matter-of-factly, “You’re probably still tired, too.”  
  
America turned to look out the window at that, finally taking his eyes off England. Which was, naturally, when England twitched, and did chance to look over at America out of the corner of his eye. America’s eyes, meanwhile, couldn’t settle on anything concrete, or for very long. They flickered, shifted. He closed his eyes, but that was dangerous road because he _didn’t_ want to fall asleep now, somehow. Somehow, it seemed wrong, to sleep while England was right there, right there like that. He attempted to smooth his expression out, unsure what it was that he had on his face because America had the worst lying face in the history of lying faces, and pretending he was okay or that they were okay or that he didn’t feel horribly awkward and unsure.  
  
Things were complicated, and America hated that. Weren’t things supposed to get easier? But perhaps he’d relied too much on Hollywood. Scratch that, he _knew_ he relied too much on Hollywood, believed everything would just be peachy keen once the end credits rolled. But then again, America supposed, the credits hadn’t come yet. Or perhaps thinking in movie analogies in general was a really stupid idea. Either way.  
  
They drove in a stilled silence for far longer than America would have liked. England focused on driving and America focused on not falling asleep—because if England fell asleep too and his truck got mashed up, he’d want to cry. Or something that was a bit more manly. Whatever, the point was that he didn’t want both of them to fall asleep, and he definitely didn’t want a sleep-deprived England driving his truck.  
  
America snuggled into the warmth of his bomber jacket, giving England a side-long look and hoping the other nation wouldn’t notice. But as they drove, England’s eyes flickered to America and held, before the two of them looked away from one another.  
  
“Um…” America began, and then trailed off.  
  
England’s hold on the steering wheel tightened and he bit his lip for a moment before he said, in his customary, prim state of speaking: “Yes?”  
  
Part of America wondered if England had been waiting, too. Waiting and wanting to speak, but unsure how to bridge the silence, or communicate what he was thinking. America certainly sucked at communicating _anything_ , even the simplest things. Something as complex as this (or was he just overanalyzing?) was bound to make him completely inarticulate. Especially in comparison to England.  
  
“Do you…” America paused, “um… want to talk about it?”  
  
England stayed silent for a long moment before asking, “Do you?”  
  
“Um…” America said again, intelligently so. He really needed to stop trailing off and sounding so completely dimwitted. England waited, keeping his eyes on the road now.  
  
But the words didn’t come. He wanted to talk about it. But what? Talk about what? What would he seek to communicate, what would he want England to understand? What did he, himself, not understand?  
  
(A lot of things.)  
  
There was a faint spark in the air, as if there was something just about to begin, as if they were both on the verge of something. But it flickered and died before it could truly start.  
  
“I’m not going to stop driving until we get to New York,” England said suddenly when America failed to pick up the torch of conversation.  
  
“We’re still a ways away from New York, though, England,” America protested. “We’ll get tired.”  
  
“You can sleep,” England said. His eyes stayed on the road. “I’ll drive.”  
  
America felt as if there was a flurry of things to say, and settled on, “If you crash my truck…”  
  
“I won’t,” England said, quietly, his hold on the steering wheel tightening further. He repeated, quieter still, as if there was something he, too, wanted to say: “I won’t.”  
  
“England, I…” America began, felt a hiccup of panic burst in his chest and thought unreasonable thoughts like _if I don’t say this now, what will—_  
  
England shook his head, though, and the truck sped up to the proper speed limit, zooming down the silent old highway, twisting and turning, slower and far more intimate than the interstate highway. It would mean more hours on the road than if they were to go onto the freeway. But America didn’t mind spending more time with England, even if he was unhappy with him at the moment. He wanted to say so, how easy it would be to say those words—it isn’t shame, I want to be with you, I love you, I’m scared, so scared. Why is this so scary for me?  
  
But he remained silent. And England, either not sensing or ignoring America’s turmoil, said nothing more as well.  
  
And it was so stupid because he knew that England wanted to hear it—he could tell from the curve of England’s tensed shoulders, the little moments of tension in his face. The way he was listening to him without revealing that he was. It was remarkable how easy England was to read sometimes (only sometimes), once he took the time to pay attention, once he sat back and recognized the expression mirrored in America’s own features. Long suffering the foot-in-mouth disorder, however, America turned his attention back out the window, chewing on his knuckle absently.  
  
“The sun’s coming up,” America said, for any reason to break the stifling silence.  
  
England nodded, because of course he knew—they were driving east, after all. Or at least northeast. But the sun was going to be shining in their eyes, soon.  
  
“It’ll be a nice day,” America said, though it came out more of a question, and an inane question at that—anything for the sake of speaking.  
  
England looked fully at him now, and had it been the other way around, England would have snapped at America for not paying attention to the road. But America’s eyes tamed England, and he couldn’t place the expression. England looked as if he would say something, and then thought better of it, recollecting his words. America shifted, lifted his hand as if to touch England, but the older nation jerked his head back and returned his attention to the road, chewing on his lower lip. America’s hand went to his own hair, acting casual, trying to fix what he suspected was very bad bed head. He hadn’t intended to touch England, not at all, not if he didn’t’ want to be touched—obviously he’d been going for the hair the entire time.  
  
Obviously.  
  
The silence returned, and America squirmed, trying to find a way to bridge the gap. Why now? Why, after they’d finally managed to meet halfway, did things have to fall away to that strained half-state? America suspected he should be angry, find some reason to be angry, but all he felt was the restraining, bitter emptiness he never wanted to feel. There were so many things he could say, should say, but it all bubbled up inside, threatened to suffocate him, scrape him up from the inside out, leave him bleeding and tired and ambivalent. He wasn’t supposed to be ambivalent about anything. Hadn’t he already established that he shouldn’t care what anyone thought, that he should follow his own heart?  
  
But it was so easy to say that, another thing entirely to hold it to be true. He tried so hard, and he felt torn in two. But it wasn’t shame. It couldn’t be shame.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The silence throughout the day is almost deafening, neither willing to make that step into "talking about it." When they finally do, it only backfires.

The morning passed in a horrible silence, and they only stopped when America’s growling stomach was so audible, not even England could ignore it and pretend he hadn’t heard anything. But of course, that wasn’t to say they didn’t _try_ to ignore it. Both, at least, seemed keen on finishing their trip and finishing it. They were on the last leg, the home stretch—and at this point, the novelty and the fun of the trip had diminished to nonexistent. America, personally, was shocked that so far England hadn’t pulled over into a bar to drink himself into a stupor. It seemed that his desire to get away from America outbid his (possibly very strong) desire for alcohol. America wasn’t sure how he should feel about that.   
  
With each growl of his stomach, America felt his face flush. He tried to ignore it, and even England seemed keen on ignoring it. But slowly, America, biting back a small whimper, said, “England… um…”  
  
“You’re hungry,” England said, not a question.  
  
“Yeah…”  
  
England sighed, rubbed at the back of his neck in his attempts to work out the crick from earlier that morning. All things considered, America was acting rather shy about the whole ordeal. America felt England should compliment him for his ability to remain so quiet about his hunger. Usually with the first pang of hunger, he was right there whining to England about it and begging him to pull over to some fast food. Here, he’d held out with the hope that the hunger would go away. But he should have known better.   
  
He balled one hand into a fist and pressed it against his stomach, absently, curling into his jacket in his attempt to silence the noise his growling stomach made, or to distract himself from the fact that he was _really_ hungry. But of course England wouldn’t congratulate him on his restraint—he hadn’t really expected it, anyway—but he really did hope that England would pull over to get some food soon.  
  
“… I’ll pull over for the next fast food we see,” England said at last, as if reading America’s mind.   
  
America gave him a small smile, but it quickly rippled and grew into something much larger, goofy like his typical smiles. “Thanks, England.”  
  
“Yes, well…” England said, but didn’t actually seem like he had anything else to say, because he just trailed off, bit his lip, and drummed his fingers along the steering wheel. Tap, tap, tap. His nose crinkled, just a little bit, his brow furrowing. But other than that, nothing else seemed to change in his expression, and America couldn’t quite place his tone, anyway. He hated being unable to read England, sometimes.   
  
But they didn’t pass any fast food places right away. In fact, it was about another twenty minutes before they found one, and by then America was about ready to eat his own shoe rather than wait a moment longer (not really, though). England pulled off the winding road and pulled into the parking lot, cruising towards the drive-thru line. America leaned over, squinting past England to read the menu (even though he’d long since memorized the menu contents of all his fast food chains). He could smell England from this distance—which wasn’t necessarily a good thing, considering England was starting to smell about as sour as his attitude. America probably didn’t smell like roses, either, but he was immune to his own smell. He squinted at the menu, glancing occasionally at England, who looked at the menu in turn.   
  
The voice box chattered at them, a peppy young girl asking for their order. England shifted, just slightly, angling his body away from America even as America leaned in closer to him, looking at the menu one last time before placing his order.  
  
He turned to America, next, looked at him with that painfully neutral expression of his. “What will you get, my lad?”  
  
America chewed on the inside of his cheek, his words arrested for a moment. He just looked at England, who continued to watch him without betraying even the slightest twitch. He told England his order, and England conveyed the message, turning his face away from America, but not before, for just one brief moment, England’s nose brushed against America’s cheek.   
  
America pulled back, made himself comfortable in his seat. He slumped down, the diagonal seatbelt strap pressing against his chin. He folded his legs up, propping his feet up on the seat and resting his knees against the glove compartment and air bag compartment. He didn’t look at England again, and instead stared up at his knees with utter fascination. His fingers fiddled with his shoelaces until they fell away and he just toed his shoes off anyway. Toes wiggling, he fiddled now with the top of his socks, brushing his thumbs over the thick skin where heel melted into Achilles tendon.   
  
“Oh for goodness sake,” England said as he dropped he fast food bag on America’s stomach. “Sit up, you daft fool.”  
  
It felt achingly familiar, but so distant. Too much how it’d felt, before, before he’d actually managed to articulate his feelings to England, before England could admit that he felt the exact same way. It felt too safe, to retreat to a time when he could see America as only an idiot, emotionally distance himself.  
  
He sat up, opened his mouth to speak. But England’s expression flickered, and he shoved a few fries into America’s mouth before America could say anything.   
  
And then he clicked on the radio, turned his attention to the road, and clenched his jaw shut.   
  
America chewed his fries, feeling uncharacteristically moody and unhappy.   
  
But it was clear that England didn’t want to talk. At least, not at the moment. So, frustrated and perhaps a bit sympathetic, America ate his food and tried to curb the urge to speak. But once the urge was there, it was very difficult to ignore it, and more times than not, he felt the words forcing their way up his throat. His face colored, his throat constricted, and he tried to focus on the rise and fall of his breathing to calm himself down from the momentary panic that seized him. Why the fuck was he so _scared_? Things were supposed to be easy.   
  
When the urge to speak became too great, he filtered all his attention towards singing along, badly, to the music on the radio. He closed his eyes, playing the air guitar where necessary. Occasionally, when he popped one eye open, he saw what appeared to be an almost smile on England’s face, but it was gone as quickly as he saw it. America resumed his singing, crooning at times, and when the drums became loud enough in the song, he practiced his percussion skills, complete with rim shots, his invisible drumsticks as his tools (or perhaps a fry that wasn’t bogged down with grease). He always did like the drums the best. They were loud and awesome.   
  
His singing skills grew progressively worse as the late morning and early afternoon advanced, partially because America was half-expecting, half-hoping that England would tell him to shut up and then he could start up a conversation. He hated the roundabout way of doing things, but sometimes England was so fucking stubborn and stupid that it was the only way even to begin to breech a subject. In reality, America didn’t even know where to start, or how to start. It was clear that England, too, was doing a lot of thinking, if the slant of his eyebrows was any indication.   
  
But the singing plan only worked for so long, because after the same song played for the third time in the same hour, England’s palm slammed against the volume control button, clicking the radio off. The music cut off suddenly, and the only sound was the warbled, horribly off-key note America was in the middle of wailing to the truck’s ceiling. He cut himself off with a choke, lurching forward slightly as if shoved, his face igniting in color.   
  
“Hey—!”  
  
“I hate that song.”  
  
“You hate all my songs.”  
  
“That one more than the others,” England amended, and there was a brief moment when England’s mouth twitched and it almost looked like he was about to smile. But quickly his face rippled back to its neutral expression, something that was almost a scowl but was lacking the proper, indignant fire.   
  
“Well, fine. There’s nothing I love more than sitting in a really awkward silence.”  
  
“I think the world would benefit from you not speaking, America.”  
  
“Yeah, well. Whatever.” America sighed. “I guess I’ve got nothing to say.”   
  
He watched England’s shoulders stiffen before America turned his expression away, rolling down the window so he could stick his head out in the wind. The air pushed against his face, so quickly that it almost made his eyes water. He blinked a few times, but not even his glasses could protect him from the onslaught of wind. His hair whipped around him, some strands slapping against his cheeks, stinging them despite the warmth of the air outside and the sun beating down on the top of his head. The air was stifling—humid and muggy, despite the rush of wind.   
  
He pulled his head back in, eventually, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes, wiping away the wind-blown tears.   
  
“Geez, wind sure makes you tear up…” he said, as way of disclaimer in case England looked over and thought he was crying or something equally as dumb.   
  
But England wasn’t looking at him. His expression, for just a moment, did crumble though.   
  
America rolled up his window.   
  
England stifled a yawn.   
  
_God, this is awful,_ America thought, hopelessly. How quickly everything descended from Awesome levels to Crap levels. It was his fault, too. At least he could acknowledge that much—that should be good for something, right? He was learning and growing through this relationship with England. But England didn’t want to talk about it, and seemed content to avoid it at all costs. So who was the immature one here?  
  
“… I’m hungry.”  
  
England stared at him in shock.   
  
“You just ate two hours ago,” England said, disbelieving, “And you haven’t done anything other than sit on your arse and sing horribly—how can you possibly be hungry?”  
  
America puffed up his cheeks, pouting slightly in an attempt to make England relent. But, when annoyed with America, such tactics rarely worked on England. And sure enough, the man merely scowled at America and looked away, but not before, for one brief moment, America caught a slight coloring in England’s cheeks.   
  
“Fine, then I’m bored,” America amended, “And I get hungry when I’m bored.”  
  
England sighed, long and irritably and just a _bit_ overdramatically. And America resisted the urge to shout, to sigh, to cry out— _Okay, England, I get it. You hate me right now._  
  
America curled his toes until they popped. England twitched.   
  
“We’ll stop, then,” England said.  
  
“Can we go to a sandwich shop or something, instead of fast food? I need to stretch my legs so it’d be nice to stop for a bit.”  
  
“Yes, yes,” England said with another sigh. “It’s not every day that you don’t want fast food…”  
  
America laughed, and shrugged. “Unless you want to sit inside the fast food place.”   
  
“I’ll find the sandwiches.”   
  
As they neared another place for rest, for America to untangle himself from this suffocating silence, America began to squirm in excitement. Relief. Utter relief, to be able to escape the atmosphere, fly away, lock himself away.   
  
_What’s keeping me from just saying what I want, fuck what England thinks?_ he found himself thinking.   
  
But he couldn’t think of an immediate reason, so he let the thought drift away. The miles melted away, twisting and turning and progressing until, finally, England pulled the truck off into a small, locally owned deli’s parking lot.   
  
America popped off his seatbelt before England had even shut off the ignition or put the truck in park. Before they could even spare a glance between each other, America was throwing the door open and practically sprinting into the deli. England stayed behind, and America could only imagine the man sighing angrily in his wake. But America happily entered the deli, listened with delight to the little bell above the door as it chimed sweetly. He inhaled the delicious scents of various different meats and baking breads. He grinned at the few patrons sitting at their tables, eating their meals, then moseyed his way on up to the counter, feeling instantly at ease and at home. With his people, who understood him and didn’t want him to ever shut up or give him death glares (though they seemed plenty content to do all that to each other, at times, and to other people, but that was neither here nor there).   
  
He ordered two sandwiches, one for himself and one for England, should he get hungry later. He leaned against the counter, hip jutting out a bit, glancing back over towards the window, looking out the window and watching as England climbed from the truck. The man shut the door behind him, not a violent slam or even at all forceful. He sighed, slumped slightly, rubbing at the back of his neck and at the small of his back, looking positively old and world-weary from this distance. There were a few girls in the corner of the shop who looked over at England and then giggled to themselves, and America felt a distinct swell of protectiveness in his gut at that, his lips quirking down into a frown. The moment passed, however, as England’s hands dropped away and he looked anywhere but at the deli. He stretched, tilting his head back to stare up at the sky.  
  
America kept his gaze on him, let his fingers tap against the deli counter absently as he waited for his sandwiches. From the distance, he couldn’t trace England’s features as he normally would under such intense scrutiny. But it was a contented moment, to be able to watch England from afar without anyone suspecting anything and without England himself seeing him and scowling at him. Perhaps England, too, was uncomfortable with the amount of Not Talkingness (totally a word) passing between them, but it was unlikely since he seemed to be the one perpetuating the sinful amount of silence.   
  
England, even when tensed and unhappy and sore, was all grace. The way he pulled his hands above his head, bent at the elbows so his hands pressed against the back of his neck, tilting his body back so that, for one brief moment, there was a little sliver of skin revealed from underneath his shirt, the slight roundness of his belly over a belt buckle. America knew, intimately, the little trail of hair from belly button downward, the distant slope of muscles beneath the soft skin, though he could not see such details from this far away. The girls were giggling in the corner again, behind their hands, and they were _far_ too young for England (centuries and centuries too young, but wouldn’t he be considered too young in comparison to England, too?). And damn if America had never quite realized until recently just how attractive England could be, just how handsome of a person he was. Yes, the eyebrows were a bit daunting but were probably the only thing about England’s face that could be considered a flaw. In reality, England was so damned charming (especially to girls) that any faults he had in his features were quickly forgotten in lieu to that certain charismatic charm England always seemed to exude, even when he was pissed drunk and acting like an idiot (the only time his charm was forgotten was when he was around France). There was something very elegant and almost primal about England’s movements, even in something as simple as stretching and silently bitching about back pains, or when he was wearing something stupid like a sweater-vest and tie combo.   
  
England had finished stretching now, though, and was leaning back against the hood of the truck, staring off into the distance, legs stretched out in front of him as a way to ease the cramped muscles, arms crossed, and his expression almost gentle.   
  
Watching England, America was once again seized by the urge to speak to England. And, once again, he was unsure where to even begin. But he had to clear the air, because the silence was too much, the silence was worse than fighting, because in the long expanses of silence, so many things settled between them, things left unsaid or things left misunderstood. And if only that silence would quit choking him. But it was so much easier to think rather than to say, especially since words never came out the way he wanted them to.   
  
His mouth felt like it was full of cotton. He watched England unfold his arms, stuff them into his pockets, and walk around a little. And he actually kicked at a pebble, watched it skid away from him, and he followed it with his eyes. He almost looked wistful, distant. He was thinking about things, too, America thought. This was confirmed when, for a second, England turned his face and stared at America. Their eyes met through the glass, through the distance. And then England was looking away again, and the girls were giggling again when his eyes settled on them. England smiled at them—see, totally charming—and nodded his head in greeting. But instead of going inside and approaching them as the girls undoubtedly wanted, England turned back towards the truck, popped the door open, and climbed inside.   
  
America would have been content to keep watching him, but he felt the color creeping up his neck, his face, and starting to settle into the tips of his ears. So he turned away, staring at the bags of chips on a rack right next to the cash register. Chips were good. He could handle chips. And there was never anything complicated about buying and eating chips, damn it.   
  
It wasn’t that he didn’t like the sweater-vest and tie—  
  
Chips were great. He should really, really focus on the chips.   
  
There was a little cling from the cash register as the money drawer flew open. The cashier chewed some gum and nodded as America handed over a bill and waited for the resulting change. He stared very closely at the bag of chips, as if they were truly the most fascinating things in the world, and nothing else could possibly compare. But he didn’t buy any.   
  
America fisted his change into his pocket, took the bag of sandwiches from the cashier, and wandered back towards the truck. England’s head was bowed, resting his forehead against the steering wheel. America frowned at him, hesitated, then pulled his door open with a small sigh, climbing up into the passenger seat. The plastic bag of turkey sandwiches rustled and whistled as it breezed across his pant leg and settled between himself and England. England did not lift his head.  
  
He expected England to start up the car and get going, now that America was back and unwrapping his sandwich. But England did not move. America peered over at him, unsure if he should disturb the other nation, until quite suddenly England let out a sigh that sounded suspiciously like a snore. America stared, and England, yet again, did not move. A few moments later he let out another soft snore.  
  
“Told you you’d get tired,” America said as way of reaction. He spoke quietly, not wishing to jar England from his slumber. America slumped again, leaning slightly against the door and slightly against his seat, propping his foot up on the dashboard and watching England as America slumped further until his safety belt tucked under his chin. America ate at his sandwich, chewing as quietly as possible. England slept on, not even shifting on the steering wheel—that couldn’t be comfortable. America wondered if he’d have a funny indent on his forehead once he woke up.  
  
Watching England sleep, though, only made him aware of how tired he also was. His eyelids felt heavy and fluttered slightly. His head started doing that strange head-bobbing thing when he tried to stay awake but he could not control the way his head drifted down and snapped back up again. It sucked, because his sandwich was good and he wanted to enjoy it. He was an idiot for ordering a turkey sandwich—that kind of stuff only made him even more tired!   
  
Clearly he’d just have to focus on how awake he was. He sat up, back straight, gripping his sandwich tightly and frowning down at his hands.   
  
He yawned.  
  
 _Damn it!_  
  
He set his sandwich down, yawning again. He wasn’t quite aware when it happened, or for how long, but the next thing America knew, England was shaking his shoulder gently. America jerked awake, head pillowed against the back of England’s shoulder, and thank god he hadn’t drooled in his sleep. The hand on his shoulder left and briefly touched the back of his head before drawing away completely.   
  
“You fell asleep,” England said, despite it being completely obvious. He had an indent on his forehead.  
  
“So did you,” America said, “S’why I fell asleep, probably. Looking at you just exhausted me.” He rubbed at the back of his neck absently, then straightened completely, eyeing the slightly crushed bag of sandwiches he’d left between them, and had spent the entire nap with his hip buried against. “I bought you a sandwich.”   
  
“Hm.”  
  
“In case you got hungry,” America said, then grabbed the bag, made sure it was shut, and placed it on the ground to prevent any more surprise squishing.   
  
England nodded, buckled up his seatbelt and started the engine. “Thank you.”   
  
As they pulled out of their parking space, America watched the patrons of the deli shop. He watched the workers as they drove away. They’d most likely seen America battle to stay awake, finally fall asleep, and then slump up against England, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. England was bony and unpleasant to lean again, stout and all corners, but lying against him seemed so normal for him, despite the short amount of time in which it was acceptable for America to do it. But the people in the deli had no reason of suspecting something _different_ (America refused to think “wrong”, just “different”) just because of that. It’d been completely innocent, normal. He’d been asleep, he couldn’t control what he did. And England hadn’t said anything bad about it. It was nothing.   
  
And even if they did suspect something, so what? He was never going to see them again, and—  
  
But just the thought of it—  
  
Why was he such an _asshole_?  
  
America slumped slightly, and was so sure his expression was rather miserable looking, too. He was never good at hiding those kinds of things, and even if he tried now, he’d probably fail.   
  
As they drove, England unwrapped his sandwich and began to eat. America tried not to stare, but the desire to say something—anything—was bubbling in his chest. But still nothing came of it. He watched instead the way the wax paper around the sandwich crinkled underneath England’s squared, callused fingers. When America’d been a child, England had always hidden his workers hands beneath gloves, not wishing to dissuade his image as an upper class. Years later, as a patriot, he’d accused England of being disconnected, ignored the way those hands felt, rough but gentle, against the skin on his face as he brushed aside a child’s nightmare-induced tears.   
  
He watched England bite into the sandwich, the slight crinkle in his face, the way his jaw moved as he chewed, the way his eyes, steady like a hawk’s, did not flicker away from the road as he pointedly ignored America’s increasingly blatant staring.   
  
_This is something like—god, I dunno—word constipation or something._  
  
Though the resulting mental image did little to improve America’s mood, at least he had a name for it now. That didn’t do anything to help though, and just blurting out word vomit would probably only annoy England further. He wished England would just step forward, say something—shatter this insufferable silence, make it clear to America that if he were to speak, England wouldn’t immediate shut him down. He just wanted to hear his words, so he could lie in that sound, bury himself.   
  
But England ate his sandwich, and once he was finished, the only sound was the crinkle of wax paper as he deposited it back in the plastic bag. He wiped his mouth with a napkin. The scenery whipped by—trees, buildings, blue sky, cloudy sky—  
  
And thus their day passed, no words passing between them save for the communication for food and bathroom breaks. They stopped for nothing else, and America occupied himself with Thinking Way Too Much (caps deemed completely necessary), staring out the window and, when England allowed it to be turned on, listening to music on the radio.   
  
America tried to sing without singing too badly, giving up on getting England to talk to him through Nefarious Means. He followed the beat of the songs, sang them, even changed the station when he knew he’d hit a song that England didn’t actually like. Part of him hoped the radio stations would play a song from England so that the guy could stop looking so sour faced, but he of course couldn’t be so lucky. Knowing England anyway, there was no guarantee he’d be more lenient towards his own pop stars than America’s.   
  
They didn’t pass any motels, mostly because at this point they were somewhere out in the boons, and the only stops for miles were campsites, or parking lots to campsites a few miles off the road. They pulled into one, so America could use the bathroom and they could attempt to find some place to get food.   
  
They climbed from the car, locking it, and England zipped up his jacket, stuffing his hands into his pockets. America fell in step beside him as they walked, stretching their legs. They walked in search of food instead of driving simply because, at that point, they’d been in the truck far too long and without any sleep. It was an attempt to regain some energy, or at the very least clear their heads. England looked exhausted, with heavy bags under his eyes and his entire demeanor drooped. America was better at putting on the front, though he was really itching for a coffee or something. Or a bed. A bed would probably be nicer than coffee right now, but that didn’t seem to be on the table.   
  
They walked along the road’s shoulder, looking at the long expanse of trees, some large, some skinny, and some merely stumps in the ground. America kicked at some gravel, looking over his shoulder occasionally to see if there was a car coming. The road was quiet, a small whisper in the singing backcountries of the United States.   
  
‘The way the light’s coming through the trees is really pretty,” America said, and it was the first time in a long while that day he’d spoken to England over something that wasn’t about going to the bathroom or getting food.   
  
England tilted his head up, watching the green leaves shiver in the wind, the way the dusty sunlight filtered through the trees.   
  
He nodded. “It’s lovely.”   
  
“I’m surprised you’d admit things here are pretty,” America confessed, and instantly regretted it when something in England’s eyes twitched. “Cause. Uh.”  
  
“America is quite lovely,” England said, calmly, and America felt his face burn red, all the way to the tips of his ears. Naturally, England noticed, but he didn’t make a comment. He just observed America a moment, took in his face, the red curve of his ears, and then turned his gaze away and kept walking.   
  
“Yeah, well, even I could tell you that!” America said, boisterous, diving into his bravado as a means to save face. He willed the blush to subside, and eventually it did. He grinned, a sloppy, lopsided smile.   
  
“Indeed,” was all England said, then fell again into his morose silence.   
  
“It’s just kind of surprising,” America continued, because he could not leave well enough alone. “That’d you’d even give me a small compliment. Since you kinda hate me right now.”  
  
“I don’t hate you,” England said tensely.  
  
“Coulda fooled me, England,” America said, and everything in the back of his head screamed that he should _shut the fuck up_ because the way England’s shoulders were tensing up and his face was twisting into a scowl did not invite emotional breakthrough but rather the exact opposite. He wanted to mend things, not make them worse. But once his mouth was open, it was as if the floodgates were thrown open—he’d been too quiet all day, thinking far too hard, trying to analyze everything England did and did not do. “I’m pretty sure you hate me right now. What with what—ya know. You’ve barley said three words to me today and you’ve been all moody and angry at me.”  
  
England twitched. “I don’t hate you.”  
  
“Yeah, but, you’re—”  
  
“Do you _want_ me to hate you, America? Is that what you’re saying? Because if so, by all means, please keep talking,” England snapped, and America was sure that the hands in his pockets were balled into fists.   
  
“Geez, why so defensive?”   
  
“Because you’re making assumptions and I’m too tired to deal with your bullshit, America,” England muttered, staring down at his feet as he walked. “Now leave me be.”  
  
“See, _I’m_ willing to talk about it.”  
  
“There’s nothing to talk about.”  
  
“There—”  
  
“Look, a place to eat,” England interrupted, and sped up his pace to walk past America, heading towards a small diner all by itself in the middle of nowhere. His country had a lot of those, and when traveling alone and through non-major highways it was a godsend, but at the moment America just wanted to hit his head against a tree. England was already well beyond arm’s reach. America heard him say, “I’m damned hungry. Good.”  
  
The diner was dingy and old, probably built back when this highway was the only highway through the area. There were a few other patrons in the diner and the joined bar, all mostly smelling of campfire smoke and worn down flannel. Wayward campers returning from their camping trip and longing for food that wasn’t packaged or freeze-dried. England sat himself at a table near the window, and America followed behind him, sitting across from him. But England did not meet his gaze, and instead gazed out the window. There was nothing interesting out there, just distant trees and wavering grass. After they sat there for a few moments, a car drove by.   
  
Utterly fascinating.   
  
It was clear England was just avoiding his eyes. He stewed in his annoyance as they ordered food and, once it arrived, wolfed it down. England ate, and stifled yawns. It was clear that the man was exhausted, and America was feeling a similar exhaustion even as he tried to drink the black coffee set out in front of him. Once the plates were clear of food and cleared away, they sat in silence at the table, waiting to digest a little before setting off to keep walking back towards the truck.   
  
As they finally set off back towards the truck, the sun was going down. The light through the trees wasn’t as dramatic or archetypically beautiful. The sky was turning dusty colors. America followed beside England, but England seemed determined to stay at least half a stride ahead of America, whereas America was always striving to stay in step with England. Their paces, therefore, kept speeding up and slowing down in alternatives.   
  
Since the walk to the diner, America had been stewing in thought. Now he stepped forward, pivoted, and stopped dead in his tracks right in front of England. England stumbled, pushed against America to keep from running into him, unable to side-step quickly enough.  
  
“For fuck’s sake—”  
  
“Why won’t you talk to me?”  
  
“Because there’s nothing to talk about, America,” England sighed. “I’m not angry at you, I don’t hate you, so let’s just drop it and move on.”   
  
“You are angry, though!”  
  
“Not at you,” England said with a haughty sniff. He tried to step around America, but America followed him. England scowled. “Stop being childish.”  
  
“Aren’t you the childish one, refusing to talk about things like fucking adults?”   
  
England faked left then ducked to his right, under America’s arm, and kept walking.   
  
America squawked in outrage, then grabbed at England’s wrist, jerking him back. “Hey!”   
  
“Ow! Let go of me, you Neanderthal.”   
  
“No!” America snapped, frowning. “ _Talk_ to me.”   
  
England was still struggling to get away, so America jerked him closer and then pulled him into a death-grip (which looked suspiciously like a hug but it _totally wasn’t_ ).  
  
The other nation huffed, and squirmed a little. Then he muttered around the mouthful of America’s jacket, “Someone could drive by and see us. Doesn’t this look _‘gay’_ to you?”   
  
“Shut up,” America said, but did cringe and loosen his grip just slightly. Then he thought better of it, and tightened his hold. “I don’t care!”  
  
“You _do_ care!” England sighed, and slumped in his hold. His forehead rested against America’s shoulder a second, as if tempted to just fall asleep against him. If America tilted his head just right, he could feel England breathing against his neck. “Let go of me.”   
  
America shook his head and tightened his hold. _I love you, I love you and I’m scared of that and I’m scared about not knowing what I’m doing or what’s going to happen and I don’t know how I always manage to fuck things up. But I don’t want to let you go, I don’t want you to go away. And I hate that I can’t even say these things to you._  
  
But then England pulled his head up, glaring up at America. “Let go of me. Please.”  
  
America frowned at him.  
  
England frowned back, but his scowl did soften until it eventually smoothed away. “Please, America.”  
  
America shifted his eyes away and let go of England. England stepped back, adjusting his jacket and patting down his hair.   
  
“Much better.”   
  
“England, I…”  
  
“Just let me think,” England interrupted.  
  
America huffed. “You’ve been thinking _all day_ , haven’t you?”  
  
“Yes. But… I need more time.” England looked away again. “Please.”  
  
America sighed, stuffed his hands into his pockets, and began walking, making sure there was a distance between himself and England. He felt England following behind him, and he didn’t have to turn to look over his shoulder to make sure of that. Except that he did look over his shoulder anyway, multiple times. He glanced over his shoulder, hoped there wasn’t any pain or longing in his expression, and watched England walk. England stared up at the ever-darkening sky and as the distance between them grew and the sun sank lower to the horizon, it became harder and harder to make out England’s features. Perhaps it was better that way.   
  
America was far too tired. It’d been a long day, and a frustrating day to boot. America was completely convinced that at this point, England was just being a stubborn asshole and refusing to talk to him out of principle, not because he had to think. What could he possibly be thinking about?   
  
His feet felt heavy, and he was happy when they reached the truck. Of course, it was a passing reassurance when he remembered that despite the levels of exhaustion he felt, he had no bed to crash into, and they were hours away from the nearest hotel or motel or even bed and breakfast. England seemed to have come to the same realization.   
  
“I don’t know about you, but I don’t feel like driving.”  
  
“Indeed,” England said.  
  
“So I guess we’re staying here for the night!”  
  
“These are campgrounds.”   
  
“Yeah, I know. I’m not stupid, England.”  
  
“We don’t have a tent, you idiot!” England snapped back, and pressed the heel of his palm against his forehead, looking even more exhausted now than he did three seconds ago. In the dying light, America could still make out England’s baggy eyes.   
  
America frowned over the expanse of car-campers, the SUVs and trailers, the multitude of colored tents.   
  
“Sleep in the cabin,” America said, patting at the driver’s door, then tilting his head towards the truck bed. “I’ll sleep in the back. I did it before, so it’s fine.”  
  
England’s expression was withering, and could have frozen fire. “You are not sleeping out here.”   
  
“And neither are you. You’re exhausted,” America said, and chewed on the inside of his cheek. If England could be stubborn, so could he. And no one could out-stubborn America. He had stubbornness in spades.   
  
“I’m not sleeping in there if you’re sleeping out here,” England said, firmly, and slammed the door shut when America tried to open it and usher England inside. He looked annoyed, but there was that flicker in his eyes and America dared to hope that England was actually concerned for him. England shoved America’s hand away, turned on his heel, and stomped to the rear end of the truck, hoisting himself up and swinging himself effortlessly over the tail gate, settling himself down in the truck bed with a look that just _dared_ America to try and drag him out. He even crossed his arms.   
  
He was settled in the backmost corner, arms crossed, knees drawn to his chest, curling into his jacket to keep warm as the night progressed. It was almost completely dark now. With a heavy sigh, America walked over to England, leaning against the truck and staring up at him in the truck bed. England pointedly ignored him.  
  
“England—”  
  
“Nothing you say will make me sleep peacefully in there while you’re out here.”  
  
America sighed, hands on his hips. He leaned against the truck still, and turned his attention away from England and out towards the camping sites in the distance. There were some campfires, but otherwise no one was paying any attention to the stupid stubborn idiot in the back of the truck.  
  
“You’re impossible sometimes, England.”  
  
“Tch,” was England’s reply.  
  
“We’ll probably get into New York tomorrow,” America said, wondering if that would spark a conversation between them.  
  
“Good,” said England, and said nothing more.  
  
America sighed again. “Damn it.”   
  
“If you’re just going to stand there, leave me be. I want to sleep. And you should try to sleep, too.”   
  
America straightened, taking his back off the truck, and walking towards the trail gate.  
  
England gave him a weary look. “In the cabin.”  
  
“I don’t think so,” America said, and watched England scowl. America climbed up into the truck bed, standing over England before striding to the front of the truck bed, leaning against the outside wall of the truck’s cabin. “Looks like we’re both sleeping here tonight.”   
  
He arranged the bags to serve as a backrest, and watched England from the opposite end of the truck.  
  
“Don’t be ridiculous,” England muttered. “Go sleep where it’s more comfortable.”   
  
“I’ve slept in worse places,” America said with a dismissive shrug. England’s scowl increased in magnitude and general unattractiveness.   
  
“You’re…” England began, seeming unable to find a proper word to describe America adequately. He ended up looking away again, but not before America saw his expression soften just a fraction. “Ridiculous,” he settled on, voice quiet. “Utterly ridiculous.”   
  
America almost grinned, almost said something cheeky, but no words came. As always.   
  
“Will you talk to me now?” America asked.  
  
England refused to look at him, drumming his fingers against his arms, still crossed over his chest. “Stop pestering me.”  
  
America’s frown returned, all signs of the earlier almost-grin gone. He sighed, irritably.   
  
“And you’re calling me the ridiculous one. What, are you waiting for me to apologize? Cause I am. Sorry, you know?”   
  
England said nothing, but his expression did thin out for a moment. Then he licked his dry lips, still not looking to America. He said, slowly, “It’s not an apology I’m after. I know you’re sorry, America. Anyone can see that… though…” He glanced at him before looking away yet again. “It’s not often you’ll admit to such.”  
  
“Yeah, but…”  
  
“Let me sleep first,” England said, and did look completely exhausted. “I’m dead on my feet over here.”  
  
“… Fine,” America said, but looked completely unhappy.  
  
England nodded his thanks and then shifted, lying on his side, back to America, facing the tailgate, and curling into himself. America frowned at him, and just felt cold looking at him.  
  
“If you move me while I’m asleep I’ll kick you in the face, by and by,” England told the tailgate, but America heard him loud and clear.  
  
America snorted. “Whatever. I won’t touch you, kay?”  
  
England didn’t answer, and America supposed that was some kind of wary acceptance to the annoyance in America’s voice. Sure enough, it only took a while before England was sleeping peacefully—or as peacefully as one could sleep in a truck’s bed. America watched the rise and fall of his back as he slept, curled into the fetal position, protective of himself. America contemplated just picking him up and putting him in the cabin, because America was stronger than England and even a kick to the face wouldn’t hurt as much as it would if America was the one doing the kicking. But that wasn’t to say that England wasn’t a strong bastard. He let him be, though when England did shiver, America shrugged off his jacket again and shifted over to him, on his knees, draping his bomber jacket over his form. England grunted in his sleep but otherwise did not stir.   
  
America settled back to his original position, watching England. The annoyance was growing inside him—he wanted to fucking _talk_ to England. He was taking responsibility or some bullshit and England was being an avoidant, cryptic asshole about it all. And the worst part was that America was fucking tired and he couldn’t even fall asleep properly. He couldn’t tell what England was on about, and it was starting to really grate on his nerves. If the tables were turned, England would be throttling him by now for being an inconsiderate, stubborn little child.   
  
He just wanted to sleep. He wished he was in a bed, holding England. Fuck. He wished he could rewind the last day and just redo it, and _not_ speed down an abandoned highway while in the middle of the most amazing blowjob ever. Seriously. Ever. And why the hell did the state trooper pull him over when it was the middle of the night and they were in the middle of nowhere and no one was around to suffer from his “reckless” driving? And he shouldn’t have acted the way he had, afterward, because he’d overreacted. It’d been embarrassing, though, and shouldn’t England understand that?   
  
It wasn’t shame. It couldn’t be shame. How could he be ashamed of England when he loved England so much and just wanted to be with him, regardless of how strange he felt about the entire situation? He couldn’t be ashamed to be with England, or to want to be with England. It had to be something different.   
  
His mind racing, reeling, backpedaling, and justifying, America’s head eventually slumped down against his shoulder and he fell asleep sitting up, head lolling against the back window of the truck.   
  
When he woke again, it was because he heard England shifting and cursing. He cracked his eyes open and almost jumped to see England so close to him, kneeling in front of him.  
  
England looked surprised, too, but he quickly hid his blushing face by shoving his bomber jacket against his chest.   
  
“You twit, quit giving me your coat when you’re the one that needs it.”   
  
“You’re the one that needs it,” America protested, wiping the sleep from his eyes with the back of his hand, and trying to shove the jacket back. But England refused, continuing to shove it back towards him in turn. “According to you, I’m a fat idiot so obviously the extra layers will keep me warm. You’re a skinny motherfucker, seriously. You’re all bones and angles. Take my jacket, already, will ya?”  
  
“I refuse,” England said, and tried to shove harder.   
  
“Don’t be an idiot.”  
  
“You’re the idiot.”   
  
“Just cut it out, god damn it!” America said, and shoved harder, hard enough that England stumbled back, bomber jacket over him. He didn’t move, and for a moment America feared he’d knocked him out or something, but England just didn’t move, staring up at the sky.  
  
England sighed, his entire body seeming to deflate.   
  
“Sorry,” America said, grabbing England’s wrist and tugging him up into a sitting position. England snatched his wrist back and flung the bomber jacket at America’s face.   
  
“It’s fine,” he said, tensely.   
  
“You just looked cold,” America muttered.  
  
“I don’t want you to be cold, too,” England said, looked away, and then stood up. He retreated to his end of the truck bed, and America wished he could call him back.   
  
“You should worry about yourself.”   
  
England grunted, and curled into himself, looking off into the middle-distance. They sat in an uncomfortable silence, and America slumped slightly, trying to adjust himself until he was at least a bit comfortable. He shrugged on his jacket, bundled into its warmth—England’s warmth—and tried to swallow around what felt like a wad of cotton clutching at his throat. England cleared his throat a few times, but no words passed.  
  
“It’s my fault, really,” England said abruptly.  
  
“Huh?” America asked. “The jacket?”  
  
“No, you imbecile,” England said, deadpanned expression scathing.   
  
“Oh,” America said, “you mean—”  
  
“Yes. Obviously.”  
  
America laughed. “But—wait, what? How could it be your fault?”   
  
“I shouldn’t have done what I did,” England said. “I got ahead of myself.”   
  
“Wait, huh?”  
  
If looks could kill, the look England was giving America would have killed him twice over.   
  
“What, England?”  
  
England straightened his back, tried to look less cold and pathetic. He bit his lip, for just a moment. “It’s still something new for you… This relationship. You haven’t had as much time to think about things like this as I have, and even more so you’re still… you.”  
  
“Wait—” America began, “What do you—”  
  
“You need time. It hasn’t been that long since we…” He shook his head. “And more than all that, you’re still dealing with a lot of internal issues.”   
  
“So you’re saying that…”  
  
“I’m sorry,” England said, softly, and then looked away towards the tents beyond them. There was no movement, but it really wasn’t what he was looking at. He was looking in their direction, and seeing nothing. His expression was one of forced neutrality, feigned indifference. That’d been simple for him to say, by all means, once he actually went out and said it, America thought—it just slipped out easily once working past the block. Had that been what he’d been mulling over the entire day? England was taking the blame, taking responsibility. It could easily be left at that, water under the bridge. But it didn’t sit right with America. There was something off.   
  
England sighed in the silence when America didn’t say anything straight away, and he seemed to slump into himself. He did up the buttons of his jacket with shaking fingers, attempting to make himself seem nonchalant. He shifted, as if to go back to sleep. He’d roll onto his side, his back to America, and he would sleep and they would never speak of this again, after this. England would undoubtedly make sure of that.   
  
America shifted, almost squirmed.   
  
“What you’re saying is…”  
  
“It’d be much easier for you, if you were with a woman.”  
  
“Wh—”  
  
“Wouldn’t it?”   
  
“It’d be just the same!” America protested.  
  
England finally turned his attention back to America, his expression wry. The smile he gave him was not one of amusement, or even ironic wit that England was usually so fond of. It just looked pained, forced.  
  
“No,” he said, “it wouldn’t.”   
  
“England, I would have freaked the fuck out over someone catching me doing anything having to do with sex, and it doesn’t matter if it’s with a guy or a girl.”   
  
“I know you, America,” England said. “If you were in a relationship with a woman, properly, you’d be holding her hand, kissing her any time you could, holding her. It wouldn’t matter if it was in public.”  
  
“Do you _want_ me to do those things?” America asked, flustered.  
  
“No,” England said, with no hesitation. “That’s not the point.”  
  
“Then what the fuck _is_ your point, England?”   
  
England slanted his eyes away, and shook his head.   
  
“Okay, so maybe if I was with a girl I’d hold her hand and shit but—but that doesn’t matter, cause I’m with _you_!”   
  
“Is that really what you want?”   
  
America sputtered, then felt his anger skyrocket. “What are—how can you _ask_ me that? Haven’t we already established that I kinda really want to be with you?”   
  
England shook his head, eyes still turned away from him. “I don’t know if you know what you want, America.”   
  
“For fuck’s sake, England! Don’t act this way because I flipped my shit over a blowjob!”   
  
“It’s not about the blowjob!” England yelled back, face flushed as he shouted a bit louder than he’d intended. America, too, felt his face burn red. But he was too busy feeling dignified outrage to really worry too much about it.   
  
“Then what the flying fuck _IS_ it about?” America shouted.   
  
“You’re ashamed to be with me!” England snapped, and before America could open his mouth to protest, England added, “Don’t pretend you aren’t! Don’t pretend it’s some—some timidity about being in a relationship! I’m not denying that may be partly it, but I’m not an idiot, America.”  
  
“It’s not—!”  
  
“Admit it,” England demanded. “Don’t sugarcoat it, don’t try to delude yourself. How do you _actually_ feel, America?”   
  
“I actually think that I don’t give a fuck what other people think—!”  
  
“You’re wrong!”   
  
America stared at him, panting from the exertion of the sudden shouting. His eyes flickered to the tents, to make sure their fight hadn’t woken anyone out. And he froze, and he thought. His body felt as if it was shaking. He just wanted to rewind, pretend none of this had ever happened. He stared at England, who was progressively looking more and more like a cornered animal. It couldn’t be shame—anything but shame. But it was true—he didn’t hold England’s hand or anything like that. Part of that was that he knew England wasn’t big on the public displays of affection, anyway, but… if he was a woman…  
  
But that kind of stuff didn’t matter—his feelings for England weren’t delusion. He wanted to be with him. But being with him—  
  
America’s shoulders slumped. “A little.”  
  
England stiffened up. “What?”  
  
“… Maybe… maybe there’s a little bit of shame. But it’s—”  
  
But England didn’t let him finish, because he stood up suddenly, and America jumped to his feet, too. They stared at each other, and England’s eyes were wide, frightened, and still looking almost primal. He tried to speak, tried to say something, but he just looked away, his complete strong façade crumbling. It seemed that, despite the demanding, he hadn’t properly been prepared for the affirmative. His shoulders, in turn, slumped. With his head bowed, America couldn’t make out his expression.   
  
“Fuck you.”  
  
“Hey!” America said. “Let me finish! It’s not—”  
  
“I don’t need you to finish! It’s shame, of course it’s shame! I’m not so deluded to think—how could I have—”  
  
“What are—”  
  
“I should have _known_ this would happen—”  
  
“What the fuck do you mean?”  
  
England shook his head, turned his body away from America.   
  
“England!”   
  
“It doesn’t matter… either way, at some point… you’d hurt me. Break my heart.”  
  
“W-what?” America said, and hated himself for the stutter. He walked over to England, gripped his elbow, but England shoved him back, tried to jump out of the truck bed, but America kept him close. “England—!”  
  
“Don’t touch me.”   
  
“You _made_ me say it—!”  
  
“I didn’t make you say anything! You said that all on your own!”  
  
“But you won’t let me explain!”  
  
“What’s to explain? Let go of me!” He tried to wrench his hand back.   
  
America sputtered, the words flying between them and America unable to pin down what he wanted and, most of all, needed to say. The words escaped him, and he desperately clung to England, trying to keep him near even as he struggled.   
  
“What the hell do you mean—break your heart? I’m not!”  
  
“How can you possibly know?” England snapped, and turned to glare at him, and this close up America could finally realize—all those times today when England had an expression he couldn’t place, an expression he couldn’t understand, it was because he’d been trying to suppress tears. He saw them, then, that close to him, glimmering at the corner of his eyes, so small it was easy enough to miss from far away.   
  
“It’s not intentional! It’s not—I’m _trying_ here, England! It’s kind of a huge fucking deal to go a good chunk of your life thinking you’re straight and then—and then suddenly realizing—realizing that’s not the case _at all!_ What the fuck do you want from me? What, do you think it’ll be this big revelation, and suddenly there won’t be any issue for me?”   
  
“Let go of me!” England shouted.  
  
“But I do know that—that I… I do know that despite all my issues and my—um—my insecurities,” god he hated to use that word, hated to admit he was scared and unsure and ambivalent, “I want to be with you!”  
  
England struggled to get out of his hold. America refused to let him get away.   
  
England tensed up, tried to keep his gaze away. There was a long silence, a long moment when England stopped struggling, stopped trying to get his arm back. But America did not loosen his hold.   
  
“Don’t you believe me?” America asked, but the words were not soft, imploring. He was angry, so angry.   
  
England didn’t answer. And that only made America angrier.  
  
“Damn it, England!” America snapped, shook England a little. The man’s head rattled, back and forth, but he still refused to shift his eyes up to look at England. His entire body was tense, and he didn’t seem to be breathing. He held his breath in, tried to squash the tears. “You think I’m going to break your heart? You think that I’m going to be so ashamed of you that I’ll run away from you or something? Fuck you, you know me better than that!”  
  
England gave him a sharp look, but didn’t say anything.  
  
But America couldn’t control his anger now. “I’m sorry this relationship hasn’t been perfect so far for you—that you think I’m going to just decide it’s not worth it or something! That’s just it, England, how can you _expect_ it to be perfect? How can any relationship be perfect, even when it first starts? Are you willing to give it up before we even gave it a chance—just because I’m… I’m kind of dumb sometimes? It’s flawed, we’re flawed! You never fail to point out that I’m flawed, but god _damn_ it, don’t push me away because you’re afraid that I’ll always fuck up and never get better! I will get better, you just—please, you just need to trust me. You need to give me _time._ ”   
  
His words rattled against the truck bed, and echoed slightly, before fading away. But still England did not move. He did not say anything. He didn’t even look at England.  
  
“You know what, fuck it,” America said, let go of England and threw up his hands. “I can’t deal with this right now.”   
  
He turned on his heels and marched to the side of the truck, planting his foot on the wall and jumping down onto the ground.   
  
“Where are you—”  
  
“Off to clear my head,” America snapped, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Don’t follow me.”   
  
And he stormed off into the woods, leaving England alone in the truck bed.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> America leaves to clear his head, gets nowhere, and goes back.

Fifteen minutes later found America still stomping through the forest, but with a lot less ferocious, self-righteous anger fueling him forward. He was still exhausted. It’d taken all his restraint to not punch a tree (the last time he’d punched a tree, the first President Roosevelt had given him A Look that still haunted him to this day) and instead just filtered all his anger into blatant stomping. No one was around to appreciate his indignation and frustration (and hurt, but he didn’t want to acknowledge that quite yet), but it was still remedying to hear the crunch of leaves and twigs as he traveled blindly through the wooded area. Now, though, his fatigue and sleep-deprivation was catching up to him. He was irritable, sleepy, and exhausted. Once he felt he’d walked far enough to channel some of his anger out of him, he collapsed to his knees and slumped against a tree. The bark pressed against his forehead, but he didn’t move for a long moment, eyes clenched shut.   
  
“Shit,” he cursed, and his voice in the otherwise silent forest almost made him jump. It sounded as if something had shattered.  
  
Now that the adrenaline was draining away, he just felt exhausted. And unhappy. Mostly unhappy.   
  
“Fuck!” he said, but he was far enough away that no one would be able to hear him anyway. He felt like crying, but he was too good for something like that, and resisted. Or something. He pressed his hands to his eyes, just in case.   
  
_Why did I say that?_ he wondered, but did not regret. He had to be honest. _He_ could be honest. He shifted, making himself comfortable. The ground was soft, and far more pleasant than the truck bed’s surface was. The adrenaline was gone, and he just felt tired. Exhaustion. He couldn’t see anything in the darkness.   
  
He fell asleep.   
  
He dozed for a while, though he wasn’t sure for how long once he woke up. He couldn’t read his watch’s face without a light, and there was no way to see the stars and determine that way with all the trees blocking his view. He yawned until his jaw cracked, and he felt groggy. He probably hadn’t slept for long, since he didn’t feel at all refreshed. But it was still with some effort that he stood up and didn’t just doze off to sleep again and find England in the morning. He arched his back until he heard his spine crack and let out a small sigh.   
  
So in the end, it had been partially shame. If he was willing to admit it. But it wasn’t shame over England, it was shame over himself. Over his own actions and beliefs—and his people. He had the issues, he knew. He was willing to work through them. But for fuck’s sake, it’d been a short relationship, barely old enough to justify such intense talks one right after the other.   
  
“Damn it, England.”  
  
What good was it if England didn’t even trust him? Yeah, he made mistakes, but he was—he was bound to make mistakes. It was a whole new thing for him, something he was unsure of, something he didn’t think he’d ever be used to or understand. It would take time. Things were happening so fast, and he wasn’t properly prepared. But he knew that he wanted it, he just had to work through it, work to understand himself and his relationship with England.  
  
“Everything just always has to be completely dramatic, huh?” America muttered to himself, leaned against a tree for a moment to close his eyes and rest. He slumped down on the ground again, drawing his knees to his chest and resisting the urge to yawn so wide that his jaw cracked again. After a few minutes, though, he made himself stand again and keep walking, wandering through the woods. He knew the direction back to the truck, but he wasn’t ready to go back yet. Wasn’t ready to face England and his unhappiness, his disapproval, his misunderstanding. “What good is it if you aren’t willing to trust and understand me, too, England?”  
  
England—  
  
It wasn’t worth it, was it? It’d be better, to keep walking until he found a motel or a bus depot. Better to just go back alone, to avoid England at all costs. It’d been a mistake to fall in love with him, to want to be with him. Maybe he really did have delusions—maybe he didn’t care about England as much as he thought. If England doubted his feelings, then could it be he really was mistaken?  
  
And what was so great about England, anyway? He was crass, loud when he was drunk, uppity, with a stick way up his ass. He was too concerned with the rules unless it served himself to break them. He demanded all these things without ever expressing them, just expecting everyone to know it intuitively. He never said anything, always kept it to himself. He wasn’t _that_ attractive—  
  
But the way his fingers worked at his tie, the way his eyes glowed just right in the dim glow of a television—  
  
He wasn’t that nice to him. In fact, he spent every waking moment it seemed insulting him, or criticizing him, or calling him an idiot or a good-for-nothing—  
  
But the way he whispered the names to him, sweet nothings that made him shiver from head to toe as England pressed up against him—(“my dearest… my lovely… my darling…”)   
  
There was nothing remotely interesting about England. He was as interesting as mud. Only ever wanted to talk about the queen or tea. Or politics and work. That wasn’t exciting at all. He constantly scoffed at America’s ideas, even when they were _awesome._ There was nothing remotely redemptive about his attitude most of the time—  
  
But the way he touched him, the way he smiled at him, as if he was the only person in the world that mattered, as if he could go his entire life only looking at England’s face and be happy—  
  
He wasn’t anything that he couldn’t find elsewhere. Hell, he could find someone who was kinder to him and probably better in bed, too. If that was all that was important to him. Or people who didn’t demand answers of him and then act like a pissy thing when the answer wasn’t what was wanted. England was just too much work. He was just too much—  
  
But the way he was always there, the way he was always steadily behind him, even if he denied it adamantly. The way America knew, without any question, that England would always have his back and he would always have England’s, and for those brief moments when the entire world was only him and England, he could think clearly and know—  
  
“ _FUCK!_ ” America shouted, and slammed his head against a tree, forehead digging into the bark. His breathing came out a bit ragged and he clenched his eyes shut, trying to quell his racing thoughts. “Fuck,” he said softer, his breath hushed. “Damn it…”  
  
Warm, callused hands gliding over his skin…  
  
That quiet quirk of his lips, a smile that didn’t fit on his face and yet suited him just right…  
  
Whispered, barely an exhale, _I love you, England._ And the soft answer, _Me too, you daft fool…_  
  
America pressed his hands against the tree, as if to push away from it. But his hands ended up resting there, his eyes clenched shut. He bit at his lip, inhaled and exhaled. There was so much that he knew, and yet so little. He wanted to know everything about England. He didn’t want to disconnect. He didn’t want the world to grow quiet, not in that way—only if it meant they were allowed to speak around each other. Fuck the rest of the world. Fuck it all—  
  
He pushed away from the tree, his eyes wide. He swallowed thickly, then turned his face away. He did not know who he was hiding from. He was tired, too tired. He was talking to himself, and yawning every five minutes. But his heart thundered and his feet carried him.   
  
He knew he’d have to go back.  
  
He knew he wouldn’t be able to leave him. The bravest he’d ever been was when he’d faced these things, when he’d been honest with himself. He couldn’t let himself disappear now, couldn’t let England get away.   
  
So, slowly, hesitantly (why did he always hesitate when it mattered?), he made his way back towards the campsite. At least, he hoped that it was the right way. By now, England would probably have fallen asleep, hopefully in the cabin. If not, he’d just carry him into the cabin and deal with his anger once he woke up. He hoped he was sleeping, at least, and hadn’t abandoned him in the forest and stolen his truck to get as far away from him as possible. Then he really would have to hike to a bus depot. Or hitch-hike. None of this seemed ideal, especially since he’d left his bag behind.   
  
He emerged from the woods, feeling a bit calmer, with the clear head he’d set out to find, but his thoughts still running a mile a minute. He had a cooler head, but it didn’t feel clearer, in the long run—if he was honest. He had no idea what he was doing, what to be thinking.   
  
England was sitting in the truck’s bed. He hadn’t moved the truck, and other from the movement of standing to sitting, England himself hadn’t moved. He was curled into himself, elbows resting on his knees, his head bowed. His hands fisted in his hair and he didn’t look up when America approached, probably because he didn’t hear him. America wondered if he was even awake.  
  
He placed his hand on the side of the truck. “Hey, England?”  
  
England instantly snapped his head up and stared at him, eyes wide and—America wanted to look away, but couldn’t, wouldn’t, didn’t. It was too hard to look at him.   
  
“… You came back,” England whispered.  
  
There was so much said there, so much not said. America felt the emotions clog in his throat, but he forced himself to ignore it, to move past it.   
  
“Course I did,” America said, resisted the urge to chew on a thumbnail. He couldn’t look vulnerable right now—not when they were fighting and he was supposed to be angry at England and want to just get away from him (if he was honest with himself, though—). “I left my bag here and we’re in the middle of nowhere.”   
  
England nodded, slowly, then ducked his head again. He shifted, slightly, away from America—as if America wanted to maintain contact, as if he wanted to reach out and grab England. As if. England was too far away. He seemed to shrink away into himself further.   
  
Let it go. Take the cabin and sleep—that’s what he should do. Let England fester in his unhappiness. It didn’t concern America, anymore.   
  
“Hey—” America began and, despite himself, felt his sympathy flare. He knew he shouldn’t, he knew that he shouldn’t give in—or, at least, he didn’t think he should give in. But he couldn’t help it—not when England wasn’t looking at him. He planted both hands on the wall of the truck and hoisted himself up, rolling his way into the truck bed in what he could only hope was a ridiculously heroic fashion. “England—”  
  
It looked as if England was going to say something—anything. But it didn’t come out, and the words choked in his throat. (Did he have the same problem as America—could he not find the words?) He lowered his gaze, seemed to melt away even more. America didn’t know what to do, what to say—what could he say? Everything seemed broken beyond repair. It all seemed too little too late. Grab on, hold on, don’t let go—  
  
Just stay—  
  
America was angry, he was hurt. But it was clear England was hurt, too. He hadn’t wanted this, never this. He just wanted _England._ And he wanted England to understand that. The day was done, and he had no idea what the hour was. But he felt infinitely older, as if he had aged dramatically. But the feelings hadn’t subsided, and all he wanted, the only thing he wanted—  
  
 _England…_  
  
Why did it have to be this fucking _hard?_   
  
It’d be so easy, to just step back and disappear. Just let it all go. But if America was honest with himself—if he _knew_ what he refused to acknowledge…  
  
He knew that he didn’t want it to end like this. But that would require saying something, that would require speaking with the person who was so certain of his misdeeds, so certain of his indecision, and so certain of what he wanted. As if England could even know what America wanted. As if England could be so sure of what America was thinking, of what was best for him. The only person who knew that was himself.   
  
“I didn’t know if you’d come back,” England muttered after the silence seemed to have stretched on—and America listened to the practiced neutrality, couldn’t make out England’s face but knew that while it was betraying nothing it was betraying everything.  
  
“There’s always gonna be that mystery if you don’t chase after things,” America said with a shrug, settling himself comfortably in the truck bed, stuffing his hands into his pockets and staring at England, who refused to meet his gaze. “I always chase you.”  
  
He let the words hang in the air.  
  
Then he added, quietly, “But you don’t chase me.”  
  
He’d meant to be angry about that, meant for it to come out as an accusation. But it was only resignation. America didn’t let England get away—chased after him, demanded answers, demanded resolution. He didn’t let England get away with the avoidance—usually. If it was a matter between pride and England, it was, admittedly, a difficult struggle for America to overcome and chase after him. And in the end, he didn’t know how long he could keep doing it—  
  
“I did once. Look at what good that got me.” The other nation did not lift his head, even as the words settled, and the echoes shivered up their spines. “I don’t have your courage, America. Not anymore.”   
  
Courage.   
  
What courage?  
  
“Maybe not,” America said, slowly, for once trying to choose his words. A peace offering, a way to reach out and grasp England—a way to make England _stay_. Please, just stay—  
  
If he was honest with himself—  
  
“Or maybe you just know I’ll always come back.”   
  
England snorted. He shook his head, looking bitterly amused. As if he did not believe the words. _Why wouldn’t he just—?_  
  
“Saying such pointless things… you really are impossible.” England lifted his head, just slightly, to look off into the middle-distance, his eyes refusing to meet America’s.   
  
For once, America recognized the avoidance for what it was, recognized the way England purposefully tried to displace the attention away from himself and onto someone else. America sat back, leaning against the truck bed, wanting more than anything to crawl over to him, to hold him, to try and actually _say_ something. To work things out. To talk it over.   
  
But they sat in silence, England looking away from him. And there was nothing America hated more than the silence that followed them, that seemed to settle on them no matter what, despite anything America could try and breach the gap that seemed to be ever widening between them.   
  
He should just let it go. It was over. Why did he have to be the one to explain, why did he have to be the one to try to fix things? He hadn’t done anything wrong—he’d been _honest_. He’d tried, god, how he’d tried, to be okay with everything, to move past everything. But it was still too early. If he was nothing but a fool, if he was _impossible_ , then what did that make England? What good was any of this, if they were stranded in a wasteland, with no words, no thoughts, nothing that could mend things?   
  
“… Sorry,” America said at last. And once the word was past his lips, it was almost _painful_ how easy it’d been to say it. It was remarkably easy, stupidly easy.   
  
The world seemed to meld and warp, moving again to something that maybe he could begin to understand. Humility. If there was one thing he’d learned in their (still new, still short) relationship with England, it was that his bravado and his over confidence got him nowhere. He wasn’t ready to leave them all behind, quite yet, though. They were all he had, most days.   
  
England didn’t move for a moment, and when he lifted his gaze, his expression seemed just a bit too vulnerable, before he seemed to remember himself and closed it off. “We can just let it go now.”  
  
“Wait—but. No!” America said. That was the last thing he wanted. “I—”  
  
“America,” England said, sharply, but softly, and if not for that slight, betraying waver in his voice, America wouldn’t have realized that England wasn’t angry, but rather trying to quash his true feelings. England inhaled sharply. “Just let it go. Go look at the stars or something. We can… just let it go.”   
  
“Why…” America began, then raised his eyebrows, felt his throat constrict as he said, attempting the new tactic, “Why would I want to look at the stars when all I want is to look at you?”  
  
But instead of looking embarrassed or even slightly amused, England only looked pained. “Stop that.”   
  
“No.”  
  
England grunted, and scowled. It was only there for a moment, just a brief moment, so quickly gone that America was sure he was just seeing things—but he thought he saw England’s cheeks turn pink. But then England ducked his head, curling into himself.   
  
“To say something so utterly sappy,” he grumbled into his lap, “you should be a—… ash… ashamed...” He trailed off. He cleared his throat, and whispered, “You shouldn’t say things like that.”  
  
America’s heart lurched again. His throat felt too dry. But his hands felt as if they were going to begin to sweat. He shifted, squirmed, trying to get closer to England, but England gave him a helpless look that arrested all of America’s movement. It was a never-ending cycle. America knew that he would have to break it, knew he would have to _explain_ if he wanted this to work, if he wanted to keep England from running away before they could even start something, before what they had could even truly begin. England glanced at him, just briefly, but that was already more than enough. America could tell by the way England was looking at him, that whatever face England was making, it was perfectly mirrored on America’s own face. And England could see it.   
  
“England,” America said, “Come here.”   
  
“No,” England said at once, and curled into the corner—and everyone called America the stubborn one?   
  
“Then I’m going over there,” America announced. England glared at him, looking slightly pale, but did not move away as America approached, kneeling down in front of him.   
  
“What do you want?” England asked, using his grumpiness as a front, as a lackluster attempt to get America away from him. But America did not leave—not this time.   
  
“England.”  
  
“ _What?_ ” England snapped.  
  
“No, I mean. I want you, England,” America said.  
  
England stilled up, his expression tensing. “Stop that.”   
  
“But—”  
  
“Stop,” England repeated. “Don’t try to win me over with smooth talking and that stupidly charming smile of yours. It isn’t going to work.”   
  
“Just listen to me,” America demanded, pushing closer, pressing his hands against the back of the truck, trapping England in. England stared at him, impassively, not flinching away but not softening his hardened gaze upon him. He frowned, and America just kept searching his face. “England… just listen to me. That’s all I want.”   
  
England sighed, clenched his eyes shut. He stayed still before, sighing again, he shrugged one shoulder. “What, then?”   
  
Here, America paused. Again. _Always._  
  
What did he want?   
  
He had to be honest. He knew he had to.   
  
But honesty was—  
  
He had to.   
  
“I hate the idea… that if we leave it like this, once we get back to New York—you won’t… Look, I know that I’m—” His throat seized up. He didn’t know what to say, how to possibly express _anything._ He was so angry, so unhappy. How could England think these things, how could he be—  
  
England opened his eyes, staring at him expectantly. Resigned. Counting down the moments until America pulled away from him and that familiar distance could settle between them. It seemed as if everything was fading away—there was nothing else, there was never anything else. Only England. Only America. The stars were fading, the sky was falling, and there was no room to breathe except for where their breath swapped back and forth.   
  
England was everything—the only person he’d ever wanted to wait for, the only person he’d ever wanted to chase after. He was the only one who ever made him feel all this, all this and more. Rolling and falling and tossing. Falling until he burned up in the atmosphere, a falling star swerving out of control. He would crash down and there would be nothing, nothing but that hungry longing that kept him from forgetting, kept him from moving on, kept him from believing that anything but time was on his side. And not even time was with him—the clock ticked away, counting down until the moment they arrived in New York and England left, only to see him for official meetings, never for anything more intimate than a glance between each other and a _remember when…?_ No, it couldn’t be.   
  
England was _everything._   
  
And with that, the words came to him. “I hate that at this rate, once we get to New York, you won’t be with me anymore. I want you to always be right there, England.”   
  
“That’s impossible,” England reminded.   
  
“If you were to leave right now, would you come back?”   
  
England stared at him, worked his mouth.   
  
“You’re the one that I want—the only one I’ve ever wanted to find and hang on to. I’m here to _talk_ , England. So don’t run away, don’t make me chase after you.”   
  
England remained silent, but for just one brief moment it did not look as if he was tied to a noose, but rather breathing freely again, staring at him with something that he wasn’t quite ready to say—something that wouldn’t change.   
  
He was so sick of the secrets.   
  
“I know I’m… difficult. But this is—you’re all—England, how can I prove to you that I’m—”  
  
“America, just stop,” England said, quietly, turning his eyes away.  
  
“But—”  
  
“I’m tired, already,” England said, and then seemed to pause. But his words were coming to him, too. “I don’t want for you to always justify, or always proving that you’re _okay_ with our relationship. I know it’s new for you. It’s new for me, too, in many ways. But I’m… I don’t want for you to always feel guilty, to always feel shame and insecurity. I don’t want for you to have to _prove_ anything. Mending your mistakes, forcing you to reassess things about yourself… I’m not strong enough for that. Not with you.”   
  
“… You aren’t breaking up with me in a truck bed, are you?” America asked, eyes wide.   
  
England stared at him, his expression crumbling. “I’m…” he said softly, his voice almost inaudible despite the proximity between the two, “I… don’t know.”   
  
America hadn’t expected that hesitation. He’d expected—wanted—a _no._ He’d wanted a furious shake of his head, a quiet, _No, never, you’re the only one I want, America. Don’t go away._ He hadn’t expected any of this, though. This fight. This misunderstanding. The ambivalence, the heartbreak, the everything. Anything but that.   
  
“England…”  
  
“I’m sorry, I—”  
  
“Do you _want_ to break up with me?”  
  
England stared at him. “I…”  
  
“Don’t hesitate like that!” America shouted, his heart thundering against his chest so fiercely. The hands on the truck were shaking, his entire body was shaking. And England was staring at him with wide, uncertain eyes—he was so close, so close and yet so far away. “Don’t—don’t, for the love of God, don’t hesitate like that…”   
  
“America…”  
  
“Do you want me to leave? Do you want to leave? Is all this—f-fuck, is all this not worth it, after all?”   
  
He must have been visibly shaking, because England’s eyes flickered away, and then, with that crushed expression of his, paled and with slanted eyebrows, he lifted a hand and touched America’s cheek, moving hesitantly, as if afraid that America would burn him if he were to touch him.   
  
“I don’t want to,” England said quietly, interrupting the mile-a-minute thoughts roaring through America’s mind. He looked as if ready to shrink away, to run away, but he did not. He held America’s eyes steadily, kept his hand against his cheek. America did not pull away. “I don’t want to.”   
  
“Then why—” America began, choked on nothing, and pressed himself closer to England, pressing his hand against England’s own, keeping the hand there. He wouldn’t burn, he wouldn’t be hurt—just stay, stay, stay…  
  
“Someone could see us, like this,” England reminded, and tried to tug away.   
  
America didn’t let the hand get away. Though his back stiffened and he swallowed thickly he said, softly, “I don’t give a fuck.”   
  
“But you do.”  
  
America clenched his eyes shut. “I’m still learning, ya know. I say to myself, ‘I don’t care what anyone thinks!’ but… it’s easier to say it.”  
  
“Ah…” England murmured.   
  
“I’m not ashamed of _you._ ” America spoke, forcefully, making sure that England _understood_ the words. England just looked at him, then his eyes drifted over his features, and rested on their hands against America’s cheek. “I’m not, England. It’s not you—it’s me.”  
  
England snorted.  
  
“I’m serious,” America said. “I don’t care if that sounds cliché! It’s not… I just… I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. I’m not perfect, you know that. I’ll do anything, though, to make this work. You just… you just gotta give me time. You gotta give me a chance to get better at this.”   
  
“I don’t…”  
  
“It’s not because of you that I feel so unsure and—”  
  
“Really.”  
  
“Okay—I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing with you. But when I get unsure… when I get uneasy… It’s because I don’t know what others are thinking of me. I can put on a big show about not giving a fuck what people say, I can pretend that I only care about myself, and I don’t care how the rest of the world sees me, or my own people sees me… but I… I’m so tired of people hating me for no reason, or for dumb reasons or for… for any reason. I don’t—I don’t want to give them another reason.”  
  
England said nothing.  
  
“But…” America looked up at him. “You don’t hate me. You… even though I’m a fucking _idiot_ sometimes—a lot of the time with this shit… you still love me.”   
  
“I…”  
  
“You put up with my shit, but you also don’t let me get away with anything. It—it might have taken me for-fucking-ever to figure out that you’re the one that I want—but that’s what you are, England. You were there. You cared when no one else did. Even when you should by all logical counts _hate_ the living bejesus out of me. You don’t.”  
  
England was looking away again, but he’d stopped trying to reclaim his hand.   
  
America let his hand slip, fall around England’s wrist, holding his palm against the butterfly-wing soft skin of the underside of his wrist, listening to the gentle, steady, rapid thud of England’s pulse .  
  
“If the only way I could stay with you would be to shout it out to everyone around me that I _love_ you, I would do it. I would freak the fuck out while doing it, and would probably piss myself—” England made a face, “—but I’d do anything. I would do it. I just want to make it work. I want _us_ to work.”   
  
England’s pulse was racing.  
  
“But… even with my issues… It can’t be, if you don’t trust in me. If you think that I’m going to hurt you, leave you—whatever it is you think I’m gonna do.”   
  
England sighed, a long, gentle sound. It did nothing to soothe America, but America wasn’t looking to be soothed, only to say what he had to.  
  
“There will always be someone sticking their nose into other people’s business,” England said, recalling America’s earlier words, ignoring the way the conversation was turned towards England now. He forcefully turned it back to America when he poked America’s nose in a manner that was almost playful, had the situation been different. “Yourself included.”  
  
“Hey, I—”  
  
“Shush,” England commanded and America fell silent. The older nation paused for a long moment. He looked away, thinking, and then turned his attention back to America. “It’s new for you. I know it is. You’ve never been with another man before—and everyone needs time to adjust, to learn… to understand. I know, America. I know you don’t mean it maliciously, these things—you’re still adapting, and I need to be patient.”  
  
“I’m not ashamed to be with you,” America said again.   
  
“… I know. So you’ve said,” England said with a sigh.   
  
“So why do you think I’ll hurt you?”  
  
England closed his eyes.   
  
America frowned. “You know… I’ve spent far too much time realizing that you’re who I want to be with—that you’re the only one I’ve ever really wanted. There have been others—of course there have been others… but none of them even compare to _you._ You’re… You’re you, England. You’re—”  
  
 _Everything._   
  
America swallowed thickly. “And now that I know that… I refuse to let this all go so easily. So tell me. Why do you think that?”   
  
America shifted closer, felt his shoulder joints pop as he leaned in, hesitated, watching England.   
  
England visibly deflated, slumping against the truck bed, staring up at America’s constant face. He licked his lips, swallowed thickly. His eyes flickered, staring at America, tracing his features, memorizing the lines and curves of his face.   
  
“England. Just tell me.”   
  
“… I keep expecting you’ll change your mind.”   
  
“I won’t,” America said at once.   
  
England shook his head, sighing. “I keep thinking—what is it that I can do to make sure to keep you here? What’s to ensure that you’ll… really stay.”   
  
“You want me to stay.”  
  
The older man nodded his head, looked as if he was about to cry. “Of course I do. You don’t even have to ask that…”  
  
America bit his bottom lip.   
  
“Then that’s why I’ll stay.”  
  
“But I can’t help… but think you don’t realize what it is you really want.”   
  
“I can’t prove that to you, England. You just have to trust me.”   
  
“Hm…”  
  
“I know that… I know that I do care, what people think now. But that doesn’t mean it’ll always be that way. I just… I need time.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“It’s just… it’s…”  
  
“Scary.”  
  
America lifted his head, and nodded. “Yes,” he breathed, feeling just a sliver of tension sink from his body. “Yes, scary. It’s scary… I’m—I’m scared.”   
  
He was so glad when England didn’t scoff. Instead, England simply said, “Me too.”   
  
There was nothing more comforting than those words—nothing else England could have said could have made the weight lift completely from America’s shoulders. _Me too._ That moment—the moment when he realized, when he found out, that his struggle was also someone else’s struggle… that he was not alone, and that there were others that had been down the same road—England was on the same road—  
  
 _Me too._  
  
“It’s natural it would be,” England said.   
  
“I guess,” America muttered.  
  
America pulled away, with a quiet sigh, and slumped against the truck’s wall beside England. They sat in a long silence, neither tethering the other, close enough they could touch, but neither breaching that gap.   
  
“It’ll be better, someday. Right?”  
  
“Hm,” England grunted, and stared up at the tops of trees before shifting his gaze over his shoulder, staring out at the sleeping campsites a good ways away. No one seemed to have woken up during America’s and England’s conversation, which was assuring.   
  
“So. That’s that, then?”   
  
England shrugged one shoulder.   
  
“England.”  
  
The other nation sighed, and nodded his head. “I understand, America. I… I don’t like the idea of being without you, now that you’re finally here.”   
  
America felt himself relax, just a little. “Yeah. Me too.”   
  
He needed time, and England needed to trust. They both needed to trust—trust that everything would be okay, that despite the unknown things, despite the fear, as long as they had each other, that was what mattered. It sounded like something that belonged on a greeting card, but it was something that America took to heart. He’d have to trust England, too, and England would need time. They would both need time and trust. It was all still new. But soon, soon, someday, he hoped—he hoped, so badly—everything would be as it was supposed to be. They would be happy. Stable. Together.   
  
America tilted his head, looking over at England. England was still staring off into the middle-distance, but upon feeling America’s gaze on him, he slowly turned his head to look at him. America swallowed thickly, as their eyes met. No words passed between them—but it didn’t feel as if he was choking, as if he was drowning in things left unsaid. America leaned in a bit closer, unsure, watching England. He shifted, felt his elbows locked, as he leaned in close to him, still sitting beside him—an awkward angle, but he wanted to be closer. He didn’t know what England’s reaction would be, though, so he stopped mere moments from England’s face. England studied his face.   
  
“England,” America said softly, but did not move.  
  
England’s expression flickered, and he shifted, too, seeming to both lean towards him and away. But there was just the slightest movement. England’s eyes flickered down to America’s mouth, and then back up to his eyes. England seemed to slump, for a moment. America drew back, holding his breath, trying his hardest, so hard, not to betray anything on his face. England looked up at him, for a split second looking miserable.   
  
And then he lifted a hand, and touched America’s cheek again, drawing him towards him. “That expression doesn’t suit you, my darling.”   
  
The name sent a shiver down his spine, and it was with great relief that America watched England sit up straighter and capture his mouth, kissing him gently, chaste, reacquainting himself with America’s mouth, sharing their breath until they mingled into one. The world slowed down until it really was just the two of them—nothing else beyond them, nothing else beside them but each other. America kissed him, closed-mouth, just moving against England, feeling the way England curled his fingers into America’s hair and drew him closer. America came to him willingly, trying to get as close as he could, feeling himself sink away against England.   
  
England pulled away, slightly, his lips just a whisper against his own as he sucked in a rattling, shaky breath. He paused, then pressed to him again, kissing him, enveloping America’s bottom lip with his teeth, biting and sliding into his mouth, cradling him as he kissed him, slowly—as if he’d never been there before, with him, as if he did not know what to do or what to expect. America opened his mouth to him, sighed, felt himself smooth over. Everything was right again—wasn’t it?   
  
It was hard to concentrate when England’s fingers were drumming unspoken songs against him, and his body moved in tandem with America’s own, absorbing and breathing him in, cradling him, letting himself be taken away. England pulled away, briefly, eyes flickering across his face—nervous, so hesitant. Waiting to draw away, as if burned.  
  
He kissed him again, brushed his lips softly across England’s parted mouth. And when they pulled apart just slightly, America smiled at England, and England even smiled back a little, skewed and awkward—and America loved to look at it.   
  
It was still new—still tentative. They were taking steps together, but it was far from perfect—just because they’d taken steps together didn’t meant they’d left everything behind. But as America leaned closer to kiss England again he felt the quiet thrill bubbling in his throat, the adrenaline pumping—anyone could see them. It didn’t scare him like he thought it would. Instead, he felt rather daring and a thumb drifting over his jaw line as England cupped the side of his head told him that there was nothing to fear. He gave into that thrill, his heart thundering—telling himself it was not fear that made his body hum against England’s, but pleasure. When he pulled away from England’s mouth, he told himself not to look around. And it wasn’t hard to look at only England—the dark enveloped them, cradled them together so that it was only England that he could see. It was all still new, but no matter what America knew he’d never tire of England, never tire of being with him or near him, looking at him or touching him. He just needed to stop being afraid. He just had to trust England, and England had to trust him.   
  
Perhaps England sensed his thoughts, or he simply tired of the distance—because he held open his arm and whispered, “Come here, you.”  
  
And America went to him willingly, let England curl his arms around him and draw him close, wrapping him in his arms in turn. America snuggled into him, into the spot he felt safe, nosing into the dip where neck met collarbone, and if he tilted his head just right, he could hear the murmuring thunder of England’s heartbeat. It was moments like these where America felt the full magnitude of all the stupid, sappy feelings that paraded around inside his head, and he supposed that yes, this is how it’s supposed to feel, when there’s no fear, no shame, no expectations—just the gentle passing of one’s breath and the warmth and protection that comes from being held. How easily this feeling could drift away, but now that he’d had that brief taste, he knew he would never rest until that was all he felt around England. Just happiness. That was all. Even if someone were to leave one of the distant tents, they wouldn’t have been able to see, and even if they could, America wouldn’t see them see. He was being held, and that was what mattered, that was all that mattered. The way to conquer a fear was to face it head on (except with scary movies; it didn’t matter how often he faced _those_ ). Even if headlights came, he’d ignore it. That’s what he kept telling himself. But no headlights appeared, and the car campers continued their slumber, oblivious to the two men, who felt completely alone to the world.   
  
America kissed up England’s throat, over the curve of his chin, and whispered against his mouth, “I’m an idiot.”  
  
England snorted a laugh. “Yes, I know.”  
  
America kissed him again to keep him from laughing outright, but America could feel the curve of a hesitant smile against his mouth regardless. He kissed him harder, tried to give him reason to have confidence, to have reassurance. His fingers curled into England’s hair and he pulled him forward, leaning onto his back so the floor of the truck bed dug into his back and England’s weight pressed down onto him. England followed him willingly, kissing him softly, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth and stroking his jaw line with fingers that England would have argued were only shaking because it was getting cooler.   
  
Light flickered and for a moment America thought it was headlights, until a distant rumble traveled from the distance.  
  
“A storm’s coming,” America said, pulling away rather unwillingly from England’s mouth.   
  
England frowned. “How far away is it?”   
  
America chewed on his lip, knew his lips must be kiss-swollen. “There’s a rule of thumb for it, but you wouldn’t understand since you can’t comprehend miles.”  
  
England scowled. “Are you sure that’s not you with kilometers, you ninny?”  
  
America grinned, laughing a little. On his back, he stared up at England. Beyond him, there were no stars, only clouds—clouds swept out across the night sky. The storm would arrive soon, each cloud bursting and drenching the world below—America’s hand lifted to cup England’s cheek. England’s eyes flickered, then fell shut as he leaned into the touch. Again, in came the urge to blab every single stupid thought, completely unrestrained. But he kept silent, kept still as England sank into him. And this time, the silence didn’t feel quite so heavy, quite so deafening.   
  
England regarded the sky for a moment, but didn’t seem to see anything that interesting, because the gaze only lasted for a few seconds. Green eyes scanned the horizon before drifting back down to America. He quirked a brow at America and America realized belatedly he had been staring at him. He didn’t look away, though, just gave him that sloppy grin. England offered a half-smile in turn, tilting his head to the side and shaking his head.   
  
“Hey,” America said.   
  
“‘Hey’ yourself.” England sighed. “What is it?”  
  
“So… what now?”  
  
England licked his lips. “We’ll have to drive once the rain comes—we can’t sleep out in the open.”  
  
And with those words, England shifted, pulling away from America. England began to sit up, but America kept his hold on him. His hands shifted, and he wrapped his arms around England’s waist, holding him close. England made a small choking sound, from surprise.   
  
“Wait.”  
  
England raised one eyebrow again, looking bemused, if not a little unsure and embarrassed. Lightning flashed in the sky, flickering across the clouds in the distance. It was a long time before America heard the rumble of thunder.   
  
“It’s because light travels faster than sound, that there’s that pause,” America said, helpfully, not quite sure why he found the need to say so. For any excuse to say something, anything, to keep him from saying all the things he probably should say but didn’t yet have the strength to.  
  
“Yes, I know, you silly boy,” England said, and even stroked America’s hair a little. The hands touching his face, just briefly, before passing against his golden hair was enough to make America’s breath catch. He resisted that urge, though. England tried to pull away from America but, again, America did not let go of England. “America…”   
  
America quickly interrupted the reprimand in England’s voice: “It’s still a ways away. The storm, I mean. Stay here.”  
  
“I don’t want to nod off and end up getting drenched because of it,” England said calmly, laying his hands on America’s arms and trying forcefully to push himself away from him.   
  
America clung tight—he didn’t want England to disappear, even for a moment. Stay, stay, stay, don’t go, stay here—  
  
It was a habit, it was something that, in such a short amount of time, America had grown used to. Used to having England near, used to holding England, used to having England. Used to know that, above all his stupidity, his ineptitude, his dumbass attitude, England was there—and wanted to be there. What they needed was to _communicate._ It always came back to that—and somehow, America always forgot that’s what he needed to do. Or, perhaps, he just failed. It was impossible to tell (or, more likely, America did not want to address it all just yet).   
  
“So, let’s stay awake.” He hoped England wouldn’t make him say it, admit he just wanted to hold him. He wanted to, somehow, reassure England, let England know that, no matter what, he was there. He wasn’t going to pull away, and he wasn’t going to let England pull away, either. But he didn’t want to actually _say_ these things, not if England was going to throw the overtures back in his face, not if England was going to look at him as if he was insane, as if he was deluded, as if his words couldn’t possibly be anything other than lies.   
  
But it seemed England could sense what America was getting at, because with a quiet sigh he sank down against him, clothes to clothes, skin to skin, bones to bones. Despite the weight on him, America felt lighter. He felt as if, maybe, it really was possible to meet halfway, it really was possible to communicate—  
  
To understand.   
  
“Let’s, then,” England agreed with a tone of voice which suggested he was merely humoring the boy. “But only for a little while. The moment it starts raining, I’m going back into the cabin and driving. Whether you’re in there with me or not is your own decision.”  
  
“I’m not going to stay out here and get drenched,” America said, and almost pouted.   
  
And with that, England rested against him, rolling his eyes just slightly—but not before America saw that soft touch of a smile, the brief moment when England’s cheeks flushed. He laid his head against America’s chest, ear pressed against his chest. America blushed, knowing that England would hear, now, the rapid beat of his heart. He wrapped his arms around England, holding him, pressing his face down so that his cheek pressed up against the top of England’s head. But it seemed England preferred to just look grumpy, as if he was some great martyr sacrificing himself for America’s whims. This was fine with America, because it meant that England was still right there _anyway_ , and to celebrate he recaptured England’s mouth, kissing him until the sighs from England’s mouth were not long-suffering, but gentle reassuring breaths drowned out by the distant rolling thunder.   
  
When they pulled apart, England quirked a small smile, a tiny scoff, and then laid his head back down on America’s chest. America closed his eyes, nuzzling his face closer to England’s, felt his nose press against his temple for a moment before he inhaled, swiftly, adjusting himself until he was comfortable, until he felt, just briefly, England’s legs wrap around with his. England’s hand, long, slim fingers, pressed against his chest, smoothed out the fabric of his jacket and shirt. Eyes hooded, England focused on his work, did not look up at America. But this, America hoped, was from embarrassment—if the pink in his cheeks was anything to go by.  
  
“Someone could walk by,” England said, quietly, testing the waters.  
  
America bit his lip. “No way, it’s too late at night. And it’s dark anyway.”  
  
The fingers stopped moving against his chest, but did not pull away. “Hm.”  
  
“You know, someday, I’m gonna pull a soldier with the nurse kiss on you and bend you over backwards while I kiss you in public.”   
  
England snorted. Loudly. “I do _not_ look forward to that day.”   
  
The silence fell again, slightly awkward. America frowned, shifted slightly, fingers curling into England’s hair. He tugged, slightly, until the older nation looked up at him, still frowning.   
  
England sighed and lifted his hand, cupping America’s cheek.   
  
“I know you need time.”   
  
America’s mouth twitched, and England pulled his hand away, sighing, looking away. He seemed to want to get away, to run away again. He shifted, trying to pull away. The hands left America’s chest, and his eyes drifted away from America, away from everything—  
  
So America kept him there. With a hook of his leg and the shifting of his body, England had his back to the truck bed, staring up at the sky—up at America, who crouched over him.   
  
“Wha—”  
  
“Um,” America said.   
  
England went still. America’s hands grasped England’s, planted them next to his head, curling until their fingers intertwined.   
  
“I’ll prove it to you. Someday, I’m going to be okay with everything. I—I’ll be able to do everything right and I’ll make you really happy. I’ll prove it.”  
  
“I don’t want you to prove anything,” England reminded, and closed his eyes. “Just do what makes you happy.”  
  
“I want you to be happy, too.”  
  
England shrugged one shoulder. “I am happy with you, America.”  
  
“Are you, though?”  
  
England shrugged again. “I believe so, yes. Most of the time.”   
  
“Most of the time?” America mimicked, blinking rapidly.   
  
“You’re infuriating half the time. I honestly don’t know why I put up with you,” England said, opening his eyes, and adding, “Masochism, I suppose.”   
  
“Huh?” America muttered.  
  
England tilted his head to the side, gave him that strange smile of his that somehow both suited and didn’t suit him. It looked crooked on his face, as if England wasn’t quite sure _how_ to smile without looking as if he’d cry, his eyebrows slanted. America watched England swallow thickly—watched the way his throat constricted and his adam’s apple bobbed. Then, slowly, England lifted a hand, cupping America’s cheek once again. Every time, there was something strangely intimate about the gesture, as if, silently, England was reminding him that he loved him. Or perhaps that was just sappiness on America’s part.   
  
There were no other words, just that simple pressure. America didn’t move, and England just observed America’s expression in earnest silence. A thumb stroked along his cheekbone, as if mapping out America’s face, as if he didn’t already know every dip, corner, and shadow to America’s body. His eyes flickered, before falling shut, for just a moment.   
  
“It’s okay,” America said, and his jaw shifted against England’s palm. He felt the fingers flex, curl, almost fall away. “It’ll be okay—yeah? We’ll figure it out… um. Together. And shit.”   
  
England snorted a quiet laugh and opened his eyes again, staring up at America. His fingers stroked at America’s jaw line, and then, slowly, two fingers rested against America’s mouth. America sucked in a shaky breath, but did not pull back or pull closer. England just watched him.   
  
They’d been smashed into this shape, they would have to reshape, reform, redevelop. There was only one way to know things, only one way they could be _alright._ Things were not easy, things were not finished. But it was not the end yet, and America would do what he could to ensure the end would not come.   
  
“Yes,” England agreed, his face still quirked into that strange half-smile of his that turned America’s entire insides to mush. His heart was bleeding.   
  
America leaned in closer, and the fingers fell away from his mouth. America swallowed thickly. “England, I…” he began, hesitated, and felt his cheeks turn red. “You’re the one I want. And… and I’ll make sure that you know that, no matter what. I don’t want everything to go wrong.”  
  
England’s smile slipped from his face, and he looked as if he would have run away, if America didn’t have him caged in, if he wasn’t lying on his back in the back of a truck with America over him.   
  
“I… want to believe that,” England said. “More than anything, I want to believe that—America. I want to believe that you won’t hurt me.”   
  
America studied his face, felt hair slip past his ear and drift in front of his eyes, for just a moment. England’s fingers brushed the strands aside. America felt his heart clench, felt himself lean in closer, and pause. England stared up at him. America watched his expression for any changes, any misgivings, when he said, quietly, a soft breath:  
  
“So believe it.”   
  
There was no big shift, no big jump, from England. He just exhaled, quietly, his entire body seeming to deflate before filling up again as he took in a rattling breath. Fingers snagged in his hair, and pulled, pulling America to him. America went willingly, dipping his head down towards England, as England called to him, brought him home again.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And with that small breath of new understanding, they take the little steps forward.

He kissed England, let England kiss him. He parted his mouth, let England hold him, take him in, let England know that everything that he wanted, America would give. England was _everything_. The fingers in his hair carded away, slipped down the dip of his jaw, along the curve of his throat, working along the slip of stubble America hadn’t remembered to shave away. The blunt side of nails drifted along his flushed skin, memorizing what had already long since been memorized. They followed the line of his jaw, the jut of his cheekbones, the curve of his nose as it sloped upwards. The hands explored before, slowly, slowly, fell to his neck, curved around the side, along the junction from neck to shoulder. England held him, cradled him, made everything _right_ again. And America was falling, falling, falling—  
  
And it was alright, it was more than alright. He forgot the world, felt England trace his mouth with his own, lips pillowed together, the smooth wave of his tongue, the soft exhalation of breath, the air seeming to freeze between them despite that.   
  
When he pulled away, he felt as if his breath was completely stolen, that he had no chance of ever receiving it again, not so long as England held him captive. And yet it was somehow okay, it was somehow more than okay. His eyes captured England’s, as England settled his head back down on the truck bed, staring up at him.   
  
The silence between them shimmered.   
  
“England…”   
  
Then shattered.   
  
The other nation nodded his head, stroked the skin of America’s neck, before his hands fell away. America regretted the loss, wished to see them back again.   
  
“You don’t have to be afraid to be with me,” America said.   
  
England cracked that half-smile of his.   
  
But he didn’t say a word.   
  
America frowned at him, reached out to touch England’s mouth with almost bashful fingertips, traced the curve of that small smile until it disappeared completely and England just looked up at him, frowning. America pulled his hand away, let it drop down.  
  
England sighed, quietly. “Sometimes I wonder if I really do have anything left to give you.”  
  
“But…”  
  
“And then there are other times, when I wonder if it’d be better if I didn’t give anything at all. If I just waited for you to change your mind.”   
  
“I wo—”  
  
“But, in the end… America, you’re…” England trailed off, looking away, his expression closing off for a moment. Then he seemed to think better of it and said, softly, almost as if ready to throw the words back, hide them away, “You’re everything.”   
  
The world seemed to shatter, as if England had stolen America’s own words—as if England, above all else, understood it all. And the words _me too_ lodged in America’s throat, and he couldn’t quite get them out. His expression fell wide open, he was sure of it, because when England met his eyes again, there was such a wave of relief that came over England’s own expression.   
  
_Me too, me too, me too—_  
  
It would never be enough.   
  
“England—”  
  
And somehow the words were too inadequate, so he just leaned down and kissed England, cradling his head as he did so, leaned down against him. Melted into him. There was no distance between them, only that moment when everything fell into place again.   
  
England wrapped his arms around America, felt them slide down, under, his jacket. The hands felt cold as he slipped underneath his shirt, pressed along the bumps of his spine. America breathed out sharply against England’s mouth, but England just recaptured his mouth, smoothed his palms along the expanse of his back, traced the young battle scars he’d acquired over the few centuries of his life. But mostly it was just smooth skin, a long expanse that England’s hands explored.   
  
And as they pulled away, England breathed out, and kept his hands there.   
  
“Your hands are cold.”  
  
“It’s cold out here, you twit,” England muttered, “And you’re warm.”  
  
“Sure I am,” America agreed, grinning wide.   
  
England rolled his eyes. He sighed. “I don’t understand you.”  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“We’re in public,” England said.  
  
“Yeah, I know. You’ve pointed it out a couple times.”   
  
“… And yet here you are.” England’s eyes flickered away. “You’ll pull away if someone were nearby.”  
  
“… I’m sorry,” America said. “I’m—trying.”   
  
“Yes,” England sighed. “I know. I shouldn’t put pressure on you for these things—I shouldn’t…”  
  
He pulled his hands away from his back, but America grabbed them before they could pull away completely. He held England’s hands tightly, and England stared up at him with slightly detached shock.   
  
“Take me out of my comfort zone, England. It’s okay.”   
  
“It shouldn’t—Tch.” England looked away.   
  
“That’s not what I mean—I mean. Don’t hold back. I’ll tell you, from now on, if it’s too much too soon. Even if it’s uncomfortable at first, I’ll get better and then it’ll be normal and then I can stop being such a huge fucking _ass._ ”   
  
“Hm.”  
  
“And you need to stop running away from me,” America said, firmly. “You gotta tell me when I fuck up and when something is wrong. Don’t think just droppin’ it is going to make it okay.”  
  
“Are you lecturing me?” England muttered.  
  
“ _Yes._ Now pay attention.”  
  
England snorted, but seemed to grow pacified, at least somewhat. He didn’t give America any more back sass, but at the same time he hadn’t agreed to America’s terms.   
  
So America decided to get up in England’s face.   
  
“We’re gonna make this work, capiche?”   
  
“ _‘Capiche’?_ For fuck’s sake, America, you—”  
  
“Got it?”  
  
“… Yes,” England sighed. “I understand.”   
  
It all came from his heart, it was all he had to say, all he’d ever needed to say. It hurt, it was hard, it was all so difficult. But he knew that it would. And still above all else, he would do it again if he could. So long as his message got through.   
  
England sat up a little, on his elbows, and leaned up to meet America’s face. And this time, when he smiled, it didn’t look pained, or misplaced, or thin. It simply was.   
  
And then he leaned in close, his mouth pressing against his ear, and whispered one simple sentence against his ear. It was almost impossible to make out, but the soft curve of England’s mouth revealed the three words loud and clear, and America just hugged him tightly, smashing him against his chest, and refusing _for the rest of his life_ to let go.   
  
England just laughed, a bit delirious, a bit helpless, and hugged him back.   
  
Lightning flashed.   
  
England pulled away, and kissed the corner of America’s mouth.   
  
Thunder rumbled.  
  
America leaned against England, guided him onto his back, sprawled out on the truck bed.   
  
The wind shifted through the trees.  
  
Together, hands slipped beneath clothes, finding warmth, finding beating hearts.   
  
So never let go—  
  
So never give up, don’t run away—  
  
Stay.  
  
It couldn’t be too much to ask for, could it? It couldn’t be.   
  
The world seemed to stand still as England’s fingers, shaking, why were they shaking?, worked at the hem of America’s shirt, as if prepared to pull it off but hesitating. So America’s fingers splayed, spread, pressed against England’s chest, felt the steady thump of a racing heartbeat. They looked at each other, faces flushed, England’s lips parted just slightly. A moment passed. Hearts pulsed and fingers twitched, bodies shivering. Warm him up—keep him near—  
  
“Um,” America said, intelligently.   
  
England’s expression flickered and he shifted, arched his back just slightly.  
  
“We should stop,” he said, hesitantly, as if he himself did not believe the words. “If it gets out of hand…”  
  
“No one’s awake,” America said, and refused to turn his face away from England, refused to look over towards the distant campers.   
  
England closed his eyes, sighed. His eyelids flickered, his brow knitted together. America swallowed, thickly, felt his fingers fumble with the first button of England’s shirt. England opened his eyes, staring down at his hands for a moment, expression unreadable.   
  
And then he slowly tilted his head up and caught America’s eyes. America froze. He felt as if he was falling again, waiting for England to say his name—make it better.  
  
“I don’t want you to do anything because of some misguided sense of _proof_ , America,” England said, quite seriously.  
  
“It isn’t to prove anything,” America protested. “I want you.”  
  
England seemed to shiver, and he looked away with a snort.  
  
America leaned in closer, thumbed open the first button. He whispered, “I want you.”  
  
England’s eyes flickered up to him again, hesitant. Need, but don’t want to need—  
  
“I want you,” America repeated, close enough for his breath to pillow against England’s cheek. “England…”  
  
The second button opened. England undoubtedly was aware of it, but was making no move to stop him. There was no demand to stop, nothing of him pulling away and running away. But he seemed deep in thought.   
  
“I’ll always want you,” America added, and then couldn’t help but smile, stupidly, to keep from dying of embarrassment.   
  
England turned his head, just slightly, but it was enough for him to brush his mouth against America’s.   
  
“Idiot,” England said. “Don’t go saying ridiculous things like that. It’ll make me emotional. Bastard.”  
  
America pressed in, made the pressure of lips against lips a more sustainable one, kissed England. Felt England kiss him back, felt the curve of fingers in his hair, guiding his mouth closer to him, softly, hesitantly, tethering. Stay, stay, stay always.   
  
But the hands fell away and England pulled away, looking down. He brushed aside America’s hands and began working at the buttons of his own shirt, stripping himself.   
  
America watched. England was taking back control, as he often did. He’d guide America, as always, he’d do the work and just watch America’s facial expressions. He would have control, and he would protect himself in that way. Somehow, it didn’t seem right, in that moment—he didn’t want to give England any opportunity to run away, even if he stripped, climbed on top of America, and rode him.   
  
And so he grabbed England’s hands, fingers wrapping around the wrists. England made a small, soft noise in the back of his throat, from surprise. But America leaned over him, pushed the hands to the truck bed.   
  
“Let me do it,” America said. He licked his dry lips, swallowed around his dry throat. “Let me take care of you, England.”   
  
England stared at him, wide-eyed, before something seemed to shift and snap in his gaze.   
  
Slowly, he nodded his head. “Right… well. Right then.”   
  
America beamed, and leaned in to kiss him as he unhooked the last button and pulled the shirt from England’s pants, hands fumbling at the belt buckle. The smooth clink of metal and leather filled the air as America pulled the belt away from the snap and zip. He fumbled, he knew he was fumbling, knew that underneath him England was lying with stately calm—but he tried not to focus on it, tried not to focus on how inexperienced and unused to this entire situation he really was. England smoothed his ruffled feathers, stroked his fingers along his skin, kissed him softly, reassurance—  
  
America’s hands, shaking, grasped England’s hips, felt the jut of bone against his palm. He pulled away from the kiss, blinking his eyes open to stare down at England, who stared up at him calmly. England offered a small smile, a shift of his eyes away just for a moment.   
  
There was so much he wanted to say—  
  
But instead America tipped his head, kissed at England’s jaw. England’s expression flickered and he let his eyes fall shut as America kissed him, followed England’s body and shortness of breath like a world map. Following, tracing—heading home.  
  
“Tell me,” England said, and he could hear the hum of words in England’s throat, the buzz as the air rushed by, “Tell me if—when you want to stop. When it’s too much.”  
  
America nodded, rested against England, felt his nose press into his hair as he kissed at his ear. He swallowed a thick lump in his throat and knew England must have heard it. The words set him afire, but he felt as if he was still dreaming—always dreaming.  
  
“I’ll be fine,” he said, promised, knew he’d hold himself to that.   
  
England snorted out a quiet laugh, and then tugged at America’s shirt, pulling it up and over his head, letting it fall away from limp fingers before slowly, so slowly, brushing his cold fingers against shoulders. America shivered, and shifted closer.   
  
“I guess we’ll see,” England said.   
  
And America resisted the urge, the urge to say _I’ll prove it_ , because he wasn’t going to prove anything. He was just going to show England. Reassure him. Hold him close and never let him go.  
  
So he recaptured his mouth, silenced him before he could speak more lies he believed to be truth.   
  
The hands on England’s hips shifted, palmed over the cooled skin, shifted around his body until his palms were flat against the jags of England’s rib cage. He brushed aside the fabric of his button-down shirt, still worn but unbuttoned, curled his fingers behind England’s back. England responded, lifting himself up at America’s beckoning, curling his arms around America’s bare shoulders and kissing him. Their mouths pressed together, pieces of a puzzle.  
  
England moved, shifted, slung his legs around America’s hips, curling around him and crossing at the ankles. He shimmied closer, and America was there to greet him, deepening the kiss and pressing his hands flat against England’s back, tethering themselves together. Let this moment be real—  
  
England pulled away after a moment, when America shivered and shuddered, and continued to do so. He pet the hair from his face. “What’s wrong?”  
  
America shook his head, kissed at the corner of England’s mouth. “Nothing. It’s just nice. Shut up, maybe I’m cold.”  
  
England chuckled, and stroked at the side of America’s face before cupping his cheek, his smile a touch softer, a touch more genuine. “If you think I’ll say something tripe about warming you up, you’re out of luck.”  
  
“Except you already kind of implied it.”   
  
England captured America’s mouth, and said around America’s tongue, “Hush.”  
  
America was more than fine with this, and proceeded to show England just how quiet he could be, when the situation called for it. The soft breaths England made were more than enough to make him want to just never stop moving or leaving or doing anything other than being _right there_ , with England, always with England. There were a few moments of brief tenderness, in which America contented himself with kissing England and following the trail of spine up and down the expanse of his scarred back. And the soft noises from England were more than enough indication that he very much _liked_ America taking control, even if America was privy to believe that the man would deny it until his dying, dying day.   
  
Against his mouth, England breathed something that might have been America’s name, even if he himself couldn’t quite make it out. But he pretended that was what he heard, for sure, and he smiled against England’s mouth, sucking on his lower lip and listening to the quiet gasps and appreciative moans with as much smugness as he could handle—it was _him_ who was making England make these sounds. It was America, not anyone else, who made England’s heart turn to jelly (again, America was pretty sure England would never admit that was the case—or perhaps America was just being over-confident). He could feel the mad thumping of England’s heart as he writhed against him, and there was definitely some pulsing going on that had nothing to do with a heart and everything to do with the way their bodies were grinding together. America sat back, with England straddling him, rolling his hips against him as they kissed, the fingers curled in his hair an almost painful tug at the back of his neck.   
  
America’s hands slid down England’s back and grasped his backside, holding it and listening to the way England’s breath hitch, watching the way England pulled back with raised eyebrows.   
  
“Eager boy,” he breathed.   
  
“Says the one humping me,” America reminded and England rolled his eyes and, well, rolled up against him again so that America gasped out, a loud, rattling sound. “Oh, fuck—”  
  
“Be quiet,” England reprimanded, kissing at his jaw and the underside of his chin almost coyly. “We’re outside, my dear. Silence is golden in these situations.”  
  
“Oh, fuck,” America repeated, quieter this time.   
  
And then he remembered that England wasn’t supposed to be doing any work and the jerk was going ahead and turning America to jelly when, really, it should be the other way around.  
  
“So maybe I’m eager,” America conceded and pushed the bulk of his body against England so that the man fell back onto his back, staring up at America as America adjusted, pressing down against England, straddling him without pushing any weight against him—he missed the absence, missed the way England pushed flush against him.   
  
America shivered again, cold and yet burning, feeling his blood pump through his veins and felt his face flush. He struggled with his own belt, and gave England a look when he attempted to help.  
  
“I’m taking care of you,” America said.  
  
“Well that’ll be a bit difficult when you’re struggling to remove your trousers, my darling,” England said, with just a hint of amusement in his otherwise stoic, flushed face. His eyes ran hungrily up and down America’s body as America sat back on his knees, bare-chested and struggling to get his cock free.   
  
“Shut up and grab the stuff from the bag will ya?” He jerked his head towards one of the bags at the head of the truck bed.   
  
England snorted. “Romantic.”  
  
America grinned at him and England offered a confident smile back. He arched his back, slowly, purposefully, lifting his arms high above his head until his button up bunched up at the shoulders, exposing the long, compact curve of his belly, the jut of his ribcage, the small, subtle definition of muscles. America stared at him, hands on his belt stilling completely as England tilted his head back in just a way that exposed his neck to the dark night, reaching out to the bag and dragging it closer.   
  
“Which pocket?” England asked, voice soft.  
  
America’s mouth felt far too dry and he swallowed rather thickly. “Um.”  
  
England flickered his gaze back to America, his body still arched and taut like a bow. And he gave him a smile that curled across his face with such confidence that America nearly came in his pants right then and there (and wouldn’t that have been embarrassing) and he wondered, briefly, whether that was confidence England actually felt.   
  
“Um,” he said again. “Left one.”  
  
England nodded his head and nimble fingers undid the zipper, fishing around before pulling out the small bottle of lube and the small foil square of a condom.   
  
England readjusted, sinking into the truck bed, his body deflating and loosening. His eyes found America’s, and America remembered, belatedly, to just _undo his belt already_ and struggled to do so. He reached for England and England only pressed the lube and condom into his hand and settled back against the truck bed.   
  
For once, America seemed to be the champion of understatement—but hadn’t that been this entire trip?—unsure what to say, unsure what to do. He moved back over England, dropped the two items to the truck bed so he could bend both his hands against England’s chest, map out his flesh. Upon closer inspection, England did seem nervous, seemed a bit tense—his eyes were widened, just slightly, with anticipatory-nervousness, as if they hadn’t already done this before, as if this time was any different. It couldn’t be different, it couldn’t—  
  
But America’s chest ached to match the throb of his cock, now free from his boxers. Without the belt to hold his pants up, they slumped against his thighs, but did not fall away completely, and he momentarily forgot about them as he kissed at England’s neck. He kissed and pillowed his lips against the skin, felt the bulb of England’s adam’s apple bob up and down as he swallowed. America’s fingers worked at England’s pants, pulling them down and away. America gasped, loudly, a rattle in his chest, when England’s hand palmed against his cock, from root to tip.  
  
“Fuck,” he breathed against England’s neck.   
  
England’s hands stroked his warm skin, beckoning him closer. The world went blank, but there was only England, only England’s touch, and soft breaths, and steady pulse that kept America from completely blacking out. The rest of the world didn’t matter— _don’t look around, no one is here, it’s only you, only him, only you two together._  
  
Callused fingers were kneading at his back, dragging him closer—when had they gotten to his back?—and curving around, nails scraping against his shoulder blades before drifting away, wrapping back around to the front side, fingers tracing the lines of America’s ribs, then sliding down over his stomach, swirling around his belly-button, and thumbing at the trail of hair.   
  
“Beautiful,” he heard England say, absently, and it didn’t matter how many times England said it, it still made something flop in America’s belly. He nuzzled against his neck and kissed down, over his shoulder, along the pronounced curve of his clavicle.   
  
America made a small gasping sound as England’s hands stroked at his skin, one at the side of his body, the other at his cock, mercilessly dragging, so lightly, fingers light as feathers. But callused. But blatant and smooth, and _England_. England’s fingers roamed over the silky-smooth skin of his cock, hot to the touch, hardened and trying, unsuccessfully, to grind into England’s hand.   
  
_Whatever messes, whatever things that are fucked over. England—England will always be—_  
  
His thoughts ran a mile a minute and when he grasped England’s cock in his own hand and heard England gasp so loudly it was painful, he lifted his gaze and their eyes met. America kissed him, keeping his eyes open, watching England’s eyes flicker and flutter. And when their gazes locked as they pulled away, he knew that England’s thoughts were the same, that same, mutual possession—  
  
 _Mine._  
  
England swiveled his hips against America’s hand, frotting his cock against the callused palm, trying to get some friction, trying to get some relief. America wrapped his hand firmly around England’s cock, pumping it, sending the man into a brief moment of incoherent noises.   
  
“England,” America breathed as England, in turn, thumbed at America’s cockhead.   
  
England looked up at him, his face red, mouth parted, green eyes burning. Hopes and fears, breathing down their necks. But there was only fire and water and nothing—nothing. It was torture, to imagine a time when he couldn’t be like this with England, torture to imagine that he’d almost lost this, that England had almost let this be lost.  
  
“I just like your name,” America said.   
  
“… You always were a strange fool.” England’s mouth twitched, and he squeezed America’s cock. America’s eyes clenched shut and he gasped. He didn’t open them even as he felt England shift, dragging America’s head down so that they could kiss again. England matched America’s pace—when America sped his hand up on England’s cock, England sped his hand in turn.   
  
Cold air touched their sweaty skins, their remaining clothing clinging to them. The crisp white of England’s shirt clung to his biceps, and America felt his own jeans sticking uncomfortably at the back of his knees. But he didn’t dare turn away from England, didn’t dare take his hands away.   
  
He felt a hand on his jaw, felt fingers drum at his cheekbone and a thumb brush against his parted mouth, pushing down on his puffed bottom lip.   
  
When America opened his eyes, England was studying his face. As he squeezed America’s cock with one hand, his other thumb pressed at the pink skin of his lips. America shifted, lifted his free hand to touch England’s hand, grasping it and pulling it away so he could kiss at the palm, bite at the thumb invading his mouth. England closed his eyes and let America do as he wished, kissing at his palm, at the fingers, turning it around to kiss at the knuckles.   
  
His pace increased on England’s cock, felt it twitch and stiffen further in his hand. England kept his eyes shut, moaned quietly when America’s thumb followed the jagged line of the vein in his cock, swirled around the dusty cockhead, sent him further and further to the edge. America marveled at the way England could so easily conceal his expressions, conceal any thoughts, apprehensions, hesitations, he could have—and at the same time America knew, deep down, he was getting better at understanding England. He could only hope he’d be perfect at it soon, so that he could always know what England was saying without saying it (and, in turn, maybe England could know what America wanted without him having to say it).   
  
His pants slipped down a little more and England’s hand drifted from his cock over his pelvis, over the shaking skin of his thighs, mapping the skin while blind. America kissed at England’s palm and let go, watched the hand fall away to his chest, slide down until it smoothed over his thigh and the other hand returned to his cock.   
  
He kissed England again, deeply and with intent—felt England match his pace, match the ferocity with which America kissed him, as if they’d been separated for too long, as if it was the first time together all over again. England fastened his mouth on America’s, and America savored the quiet moans.  
  
“Come closer,” England beckoned when they pulled away for air. England hooked a leg around America, trying to drag him over him. “Closer.”   
  
America felt as if he would burst, his body shivering, feeling hot and cold and all around at once, hard and hot and tight and shuddering. He panted out England’s name, bent over him, let England drag him over until they were pressed together, skin upon skin. America felt his skin ignite.   
  
“England,” America whispered. “England…”  
  
“I’m here,” England said, though it was unnecessary because yes, England was right _there_ and he wasn’t going away and it was as if he’d always been there.   
  
The hands fumbled on each other’s cocks, but it was alright because America was groping blindly for the lube, trying to get it all _ready_ , trying to make it so England didn’t have to worry, didn’t have to reclaim control. Take care of him—  
  
He was groping, trying to find it without taking his eyes off England, trying to find it quickly enough before he lost control just from the touch of England’s hand upon his skin, upon his cock.   
  
“England…”   
  
England stroked his hands over his body, and America watched the shift in his eyes as he spoke his name, his name, only his name, only for him—in his voice, in his longing. That was all it was, that was all it ever would be. He wouldn’t stop until he convinced England, until England smiled at him like it didn’t physically hurt him, until he could hold England without feeling the urge to look over his shoulder.   
  
His hand closed around the bottle of lube, off the side of England’s elbow. His fingers grazed the shirt-covered arm as he pulled back, pushed his thumb against the cap until it popped open. He upended it in his hand, felt the slick lube spread over his fingers and pool in his palm. England was holding onto him, making those noises that drove him mad and knew that he was making the same noises, too, and wondering—hoping—it had the same effect on England as well.   
  
His hands fumbled, unused to moving without England’s guidance. But he, too, couldn’t run away from the unfamiliar. One hand gripped England’s hip, tipping his body back. England complied with the hold, shifting his body, spreading his legs and staring at him, only him. One slick finger slipped into England and America watched as England seized up, as he always did, before relaxing—and somehow it was different now than it had been before. He pushed, his finger curling, stretching into England, and England’s mouth parted just so.   
  
He hesitated, added a second finger, watched the way England writhed against his hold. _Sweet Jesus—_  
  
His pants slipped down his thighs, and the cool night air kissed the sweat on his skin. Hair fell into his eyes as he bent over England, staring at his face. England’s eyes were clenched tight, his body tensed until he reminded himself to relax. He watched the shoulders sag, felt the quiver of England’s body as he shifted, opened himself up to America. England’s body shivered, for just a moment.   
  
“It’s good, it’s good, it’s fine,” England whispered. “Just do it—America. _America._ ”   
  
America’s entire being shattered then, and it took all his restraint not to just tip his head back and be done with it—to hear that voice, those words. _England._   
  
“It’s okay?” America parroted.  
  
“America,” England gasped, and a hand dragged over his cock.   
  
America shuddered and gasped loudly—it almost burned painfully, to feel England touching him, touching him _there._   
  
“Wait,” America gasped, and with his free hand tried to grab at the condom, rip open the packaging without tearing the contents. “Wait, no. In you—in you.”  
  
The hand on his cock stopped, and dragged up, pressed against his chest. The fingers curled, and it left a searing remembrance on America’s skin. He fumbled, one-handed, with the condom until England took pity on him and took it from him, opening it and slipping it on over America’s cock.   
  
Slowly, so slowly, he withdrew his hand from England, saw the way England’s face contorted, just slightly. Then he grasped America’s cock, slicking it up with lube. America shuddered again, tried to resist the urge to fall over the edge just then, without ever having had to enter England.   
  
He grabbed England’s leg, hooked it up to his chest as he shimmied up to him, nudging his cock into England. Tight—hot, hot heat.   
  
England let out a small gasping noise and then just gripped at America’s shoulders, nails digging into the skin. America panted quietly and pushed into him, pushed his way inside, into England and England was there to meet him, holding on tight, gasping out America’s name in a rattling, shaking exhalation.   
  
He waited until England loosened a little before pushing in the rest of the way, pushing in up to the hilt, sliding his way home. The leg in his hand flexed and relaxed alternately, and England panted, hands sliding over his shoulders, up his neck, and pulling away his glasses, as if he’d forgotten until that moment they’d existed. England folded them with deliberate care, his hands only shaking slightly, before settling them on the bag up next to his head. He did that same arch of his back as before, his body tightening like a bow, and subsequently tightening around America’s cock. America shook, dipping over England, the leg falling from his grasp and thumping against the truck bed.   
  
“England,” he whispered.  
  
England’s hold on him tightened as America pushed into him and pulled out, setting a steady rhythm that very quickly rose in tempo as the pleasure mounted inside America again, coiling in his stomach and making him see stars even before he’d reached his climax. America leaned down, kissed him, pillowed his mouth against his forehead, tasting the sweat in his hair, on his skin.   
  
“England,” he said again.  
  
The other man responded, a quiet moan, a tiny _ah_ sound as America hit that particular spot in the rhythm of his movements. England arched to him, settled himself into America’s grasps—his, for the night.   
  
“Does it hurt?” he asked in a hushed whisper as he pushed into and out of England, his heart racing as quickly as his thrusts. England’s body shook with each thrust, rattled the truck hard enough that America feared it would start to groan, too. England was trying to grind back against America, had his legs wrapped around America’s hips to keep him close, heels pressing into the small of his back at a bruising pressure. He was _perfect._   
  
“Yes,” England confessed, and the tension in his face suggested it was the truth. America almost froze, but the heels in his back pushed harder. “But it’s alright—don’t stop, darling. Just a little longer. I’ll be alright—just a little longer.”  
  
America swallowed thickly, felt himself falling and longing to always be there with England—who was perfect, slick, arched, _his_ —his, in all his glory, the glory of sweat and shortness of breath, slick movements, angular features. Unattractive, but so beautiful. And the only one he’d ever wanted, truly, wanted for so long and never even realized until it hit him in the face.   
  
“Please,” England said, then moaned quietly, trying to muffle the sound and not arouse unnecessary attention—  
  
But America’s thoughts were far from other people, they were focused solely on England.   
  
“Oh,” America told England, felt his thighs quiver and nearly teetered into his orgasm. His body shuddered, and he leaned down to England, felt England shift to accommodate him. He pressed his forehead against England’s for a moment, his thrusts stopping for a moment at the strange angle.   
  
England dug his fingers into America’s spine, his heels pressing so hard America was certain it’d bruise.   
  
“Oh,” England agreed, and punctuated the understatement with a quiet laugh. “My love… ly. Lovely. Darling, yes.”   
  
“Fuck,” America breathed. “Fuck—oh.”   
  
“Keep going,” England said, “It’s good—it’s so good.”   
  
“Fuck, if you keep saying shit like that, I’m gonna—”  
  
“Shhh,” England whispered against his mouth as he pushed up to kiss him, biting at his lower lip. “I know—I believe you. Keep going, don’t stop. Never stop. Fucking hell…”  
  
 _I believe you._  
  
America shifted, pulled away from England even as England groped to keep him closer, hands curling in air. He pushed his hands underneath England, one on his backside, the other along the curve of his spine, between his shoulder blades. He pulled, and lifted England up against him. He slipped out of England, felt the loss as a deep, shattering ache. England breathed harshly through his nose, making a soft sound of confusion.   
  
“Closer,” America said as way of explanation as he shifted on his knees to push England’s back up against the truck’s back window. The legs curled around his waist tightened and England stared at him in surprise.   
  
And then understanding seemed to dawn on him and he pressed closer, chest to chest, frotting his cock against America’s lower belly.   
  
“Please,” he whispered against America’s mouth.   
  
America nodded, balancing England’s weight between America’s bulk and the sturdy backdrop of the truck wall as his hands slid down, parting England’s cheeks to nudge his cock back into him, pushing up and in and— _Oh._   
  
“America,” England moaned.  
  
America thrust up into him, using the new angle to push in harder and deeper and faster. England’s body rocked, pushed against the truck and the soft squeak of tires was the only indication that the truck was moving in time to America’s thrusts. He continued the pace, moving in and against England’s pliant body, thrived in the way that England curled up against him, encouraged him, was grinding against him in just the way that drove America crazy.   
  
England’s head struck against the window with the force of the rocking and pushing, but he didn’t seem to notice or care and America grasped England’s hips, pushing him up and down against his cock, watched England move, fascinated by the way the unbuttoned shirt he still wore clung to the cool glass of the windows.   
  
When England’s head continued to hit the window, though, America shifted a hand up to pillow his fingers into England’s hair, dragged his face down so that they kissed as America thrust up mercilessly into England. America moaned against his mouth, and England hungrily swallowed the sounds and kisses.  
  
It didn’t take long after that, just a few more thrusts, before America felt his body seize up and he reached the end. His body spasmed and he thrust without beat or rhythm into England. England met his thrusts, pushing himself up and down over America’s cock until America, spent, and soft, pushed up against England, their slick forehead sliding together for a moment before America kissed England’s cheek, then rested his face against the cool surface of glass, his chin cushioned against the cloth of England’s shirt.   
  
England panted against him, grinding his hips, and America could still feel the hard curve of England’s cock.  
  
He pulled away, pulled out of England. England sighed, his body slumped against the truck window, as America fiddled with the condom, tying it off and searching around for a quick place to leave it for until he could give England release. He crawled back to England, kissed him on the mouth and England moaned, shamelessly, desperately.  
  
“America,” he whispered against his mouth.  
  
“I’ve got you,” America promised, pulling away, hand curling around England’s cock and pumping it. He leaned down, kissing haphazardly down England’s body until his mouth curled around the head of England’s cock and England let out a shuttering gasp, fingers going immediately to his hair. America pumped his hand and mouth over England’s cock, and it didn’t take long before the man was arching into his mouth and America’s mouth was filling with white seed. He coughed, just once, hand pressing to his mouth to keep from spilling, swallowing as much of England as he could.   
  
Once England was sated, America pulled back, licking his lips and wiping his mouth. England kept his eyes closed, his chest panting.   
  
“I’ll be right back,” he whispered against England’s mouth.  
  
England made a small _hmmm_ sound and pecked him on the lips before America could pull away. America gingerly picked up the spent condom and fisted the empty box of condoms from the bag, trotting off to find a garbage can. He made it three steps before remembering that, maybe, he should redo his belt buckle and pull his pants back up before they sagged to his knees. Trying to do so one-handed was very difficult, and he only managed to do up the zip. Once the trash can was located, he freed both hands and redid his pants, then he quickly dashed his way back to England, in the most manly way possible, obviously.  
  
He practically threw himself into the truck bed and scuttled up to England, who hadn’t moved from where he’d left him, head lolled against the truck’s window.   
  
America kissed him in greeting and England responded, kissing back with a quiet, tired sigh.   
  
England must have been exhausted. They hadn’t slept well in what felt like forever, and now for something as exhausting as this—  
  
A rain drop fell on America’s nose, and it wrinkled in response.  
  
He tipped his head back, stared at the long expanse of clouds, with no break in the horizon. He’d fallen deaf to the sounds of thunder, but now that he stopped to listen, he could tell it was louder and closer. He turned his attention back to England as a second drop fell on the back of his neck.  
  
He kissed England.   
  
England responded, and pressed up against him.   
  
America pulled away, wrapping one arm around England as he searched around for England’s underwear. He handed them to England and England pulled them up his hips, and slowly redid the buttons of his shirt. Underwear and button-down was a good combo for England, America decided.   
  
“I feel disgusting,” England announced. “I need a fucking shower after all this is over.”   
  
“How romantic,” America said.   
  
More raindrops fell and England seemed to notice it, because he quickly grew grouchy. “Fuck, rain.”  
  
“Aren’t you used to rain?”  
  
England kicked him away and stood up, somehow looking quite dignified despite wearing only boxers and a wrinkled, sweaty button-down, and very, very clearly sporting some _just fucked_ hair.   
  
“Come on, my lad. Grab the bags,” England said, and scooped up his bag and his shoes before dropping down off the truck bed, his legs only slightly wobbly from exhaustion and satisfaction.   
  
America scampered after him, picking up his bags and his discarded shirt and jacket (and England’s pants). He jumped down to meet England and watched England open the door and throw the bags inside until they thumped against the opposite side’s door.   
  
“Are we going to drive?” America asked cautiously as England climbed up into the truck and how the hell could he be so determine despite being sleep deprived, exhausted, and possibly with a sore ass?   
  
“If you can handle it. I’m about to pass out,” England muttered. “Get inside before the rain gets in.”  
  
America climbed up and slammed the door shut. They sat in silence for a moment, but unlike the times before, this one felt comfortable, an understanding. England yawned, loudly, and pressed his cheek against America’s shoulder for a moment, sighing sleepily.  
  
“You can sleep,” America said. “I can dr—i…iive,” he tried to speak around the jaw-cracking yawn. “Um. Drive,” he said when the yawn subsided. But England was giving him a look. America grinned at him. “I’ll drive.”  
  
“You will not,” England said, snippety. “Looks like we’re sleeping here.”   
  
“Wait—huh? It’s going to be wet out there.”  
  
“Not out there, in here.”   
  
“Here?”   
  
“Did I stutter?”   
  
America rolled his eyes. “It’s kind of cramped in here.”   
  
“I’ll sleep on the floor. You can have the seats,” England said calmly, and shifted away from America to do just that.  
  
Except America wrapped his arms around him and pressed his face into England’s neck. “No way. I’ll sleep on the floor.”  
  
“Don’t be ridiculous.”  
  
“You’re the ridiculous one.”  
  
“I am no such thing.”  
  
“If you insist on sleeping on the floor, then I’m sleeping outside.”  
  
“You will do no such thing,” England said, and the angered look he gave America was slightly dampened by the large yawn. He waited for it to pass before he said, firmly, “You’ll catch your death in this storm.”  
  
Fat raindrops were falling against the windshield now. It was audible in the truck cabin.   
  
America kissed England, then dropped down onto the floor, punching at his bag until it was suitable enough to be a pillow.   
  
“You little bastard,” was all England said before he settled down onto the seat, facing America. He rested himself on the edge, and America rolled over onto his back so he could look up at England.   
  
England already looked as if he would start nodding off, his eyelids droopy. From this distance, and with the aid of the little car light that hadn’t turned off yet, America could make out the large bags under England’s eyes. England gave him a sleepy smile as America lifted his hand, brushing the hair from England’s face.   
  
“You okay?”  
  
“Only tired,” England said with a small nod. One hand flopped down and, much like America’s, brushed along America’s face. “You can’t break me so easily, little boy.”  
  
“Har har,” America said, but just looking at how sleepy England was only made America feel more tired, too. “I’m not little.”  
  
“No, I suppose you aren’t,” England agreed, voice quiet and sleepy.   
  
“It’s really uncomfortable down here. You better appreciate my sacrifices. I think the gear shift is trying to bone me.”  
  
“Thank you for that image.” England rolled his eyes, looking briefly annoyed.   
  
America laughed. “Jealous of the truck?”  
  
“Let’s just say I’ll be vastly disappointed if the truck gets to fuck you into the floor before I do,” England said, voice fading slightly, as if he really was about to pass out.   
  
America felt his face turn red despite himself. “Ha ha.”   
  
England’s eyes fell shut, and America watched him.  
  
The fingers in England’s hair shifted, stroking at his jaw as England seemed to slump into the seat cushions.  
  
“You’re the only one for me, baby,” America said.  
  
“Don’ call m’baby,” England slurred, speaking around the seat cushion, eyes not opening.  
  
“I think I was quoting something.”  
  
England didn’t respond right away. A moment passed and he said, “Me too.”  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“Yer t’only one fer me.”   
  
America felt his face turn even redder. He coughed, slightly, and felt himself grinning stupidly. “Well. Good.”   
  
“Hmmm.”   
  
“Go to sleep, ‘kay? We’ll get to New York tomorrow.”  
  
England nodded. Then his brow knit, and he shifted, pushing himself away from the edge of the seat until his back pressed against the back of the seats.   
  
“England…?”  
  
“Come up here,” England said, sounding a bit more awake, opening his eyes and his arms. He beckoned with his hands. “I won’t have you sodomized by a vehicle in your sleep.”   
  
“But—”  
  
“It’ll keep us warm, too. I have no idea where my trousers are and I’m not inclined to search for them.”   
  
“They’re around here somewhere—”  
  
“Come here,” England ordered, and pressed a hand against America’s chest, as if he had the intention of grabbing America by his shirt collar and coming up short.   
  
“Fine, fine,” America sighed, admitting defeat and sitting up. After cracking the top of his head against the steering wheel and cursing rather colorfully, he settled up onto the edge of the truck, his legs curling uncomfortably. He’d be horribly cramped in the morning, but for now it couldn’t be helped, especially with England hooking one leg over America’s hip and drawing him closer.   
  
“Good night,” England whispered, and seemed to already be nodding off again.  
  
America sighed and wrapped an arm around England, pushing himself flushed against England.   
  
“Night, old man.”   
  
America yawned, and quickly fell asleep, too, curled up against England, his breathing tuning in time with his. He fell asleep holding England, and not caring if anyone walked by and saw him like that with the only person in the world that mattered—the only person he could ever care this much for.


End file.
